


can't have it both ways

by Irony_Rocks



Series: Soulmarks [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AUs, Angry Sex, Angst, Cap!Peggy, Captain Britain - Freeform, Director!Rogers, F/M, Jealousy Kink, OTP: true, Silver Fox!Steve, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, modern day Peggy, seriously even old Steve Rogers can get it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:33:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 48,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24886144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irony_Rocks/pseuds/Irony_Rocks
Summary: Peggy Carter woke up as Captain Britain to an unrecognizable world in the twenty-first century, with Steve Rogers now acting as the Director of Shield. He's older, more refined, a history that has taken its toll and made him world-weary where he once stood tall and sincere. Her life has never been straight-forward or normal, but this is going to hurt more than most everything else.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Peggy Carter
Series: Soulmarks [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1800769
Comments: 115
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This now comes with [art](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard), for visualization of how older Steve looks in my fic. But here's a quick peek:
> 
> [](https://ibb.co/80xmLbk)  
>   
> 
> 
> A companion piece to the Soulmate Mark AU, “[like the way you burn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23688904).” You should probably read that first.
> 
> This follows the Future!Peggy x Older!Steve version in Universe "B" of the two timelines in my last fic. That's the one where Bucky "died," and Peggy unknowingly went into the Valkarie, destined to wake up in the future. As Steve has spent seventy years in the Shield organization, a lot of things are changed in the MCU timeline. 
> 
> This first chapter is set nebulously somewhere between "Winter Soldier" and "Civil War," and borrows heavily from both. Don't try to fit it into a specific timeline, though. As I've discovered while writing time-traveling fics, your brain may explode trying to make sense of things.

#

Her digital alarm starts beeping incessantly at five o'clock as it has every morning for the past year and a half, but this morning, Peggy is already wide-awake. She reaches over without even looking, silencing the offending noise and throwing her feet over the side of the bed. She hadn’t managed much sleep because she was so keyed up in anticipation over the meeting starting the day – or more precisely, the person in charge of the meeting starting the day. It’s frankly humiliating.

When she looks out the window, she can see the Avenger tower from several blocks away, the glint off the monstrosity of an “A” that Tony insists is iconic shining through to her. She had a place to stay in the tower, but Peggy needs her space. Besides, even in a world as foreign as this, she hates not being able to stand on her own two feet. Shield gives her a monthly stipend that was, when she initially saw the figure, not as obscene as she had first assumed. Others had assured it wasn’t extravagant, but it helped with renting a small flat a few blocks away from the heart of Manhattan. Since then, she’s come to realize the stipend is more than reasonably decent, Manhattan real estate being what it is. She wonders if people’s benchmark for extravagance is just Tony Stark’s idea of a decent time, and that might be setting the bar too high. Even in her own days, Howard had acted a spoiled brat with the way he threw his money around.

By the time the sun has risen, she’s already been on the elliptical for an hour, needing the exercise to disburse some of her pent-up energy. She’ll be the first one in the briefing regardless. Maria keeps scheduling the Avengers meeting later and later in the day, keeps hoping Tony will show up on time one of these days. It’ll never happen, of course. She grabs the weights, finishing another hundred reps per set, alternating between upper body and lower body exercises, and then runs another handful of miles before deciding to take her shower. 

Afterwards, she selects her wardrobe carefully, choosing a flattering blue top and dark pencil skirt for the day. Professional, clean, simple, _modern_ – as she’s told – but attractive, with the top button undone. 

At the tower, she bypasses security, but not before being stopped by a random pedestrian on the street who wants to take a “selfie” with Captain Britain. She indulges if the mood suits her, and today she tries her best to smile with some genuine warmth. She doubts many people can spot her fake smiles from her real ones anymore. 

There’s no one else on the floor when she arrives early. The conference room is empty, and Peggy tells Jarvis to turn on the news, catching the latter half of a segment about another round of gun control measures that will inevitably fail to pass in the Senate. Peggy watches for a moment with a frown, arms crossed over her chest, hair upswept in a clean ponytail. She’s lived plenty of other places, as the war hadn’t afforded her any one place of residence for too lengthy a time – and she refuses to count the sixty-six years she’d been frozen in the Artic – but the States is a singular experience. It probably does not help that she’s still adjusting to a myriad of issues having to do with being displaced from time. Whatever the case may be, Peggy knows American politics is a messy quagmire full of conflict and failed negotiations, and she’ll never be one to understand or tolerate it without the express urge to hurl something towards the wall.

“— and that’s why you should always pay nuclear physicists well,” Natasha says, clearly the end of some interesting story as she and Clint walk in. Clint sets his bag on the floor, while Natasha sits down, swinging her chair to face Peggy. “You caught up on the details of the mission, Cap?”

Peggy frowns. She read the mission briefing last night, finding the details light and conveniently superficial for a dossier meant to inform. There was something about a group of assassins, a bounty on the heads of the members of the Avengers, and something else, too, redacted, something that had Soviet origins. It was all very cloak and dagger, even in the notes. It’s Fury’s style to obfuscate and deploy, but not… certainly not _Steve’s._

As if summoned by her thoughts, Steve walks through the pair of glass doors. Despite his advancing age, he still cuts a sharp figure, dressed in a subtly checked gray three-piece suit with a bright contrasting pocket square. He’s always dressed professionally, the days of his _Captain America_ uniform long over for nearly four decades, but she likes to think he wears such smart suits because she loves them so. He’d never admit to it, though, like he’d never admit to the fact that his eyes always seek hers out first, no matter the room, no matter the circumstances, before skidding away. 

Today, with no exception, he meets her gaze and then looks away quickly, choosing instead to greet the group at large with the customary and bland reception. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he greets. “Well rested today?”

“As good as any other day, boss,” Natasha replies.

Peggy doesn’t bother responding. She keeps her face neutral, giving nothing, expressing nothing, – not even over their soulbond. It’s been weeks since she last saw him, but truly months since they’d had anything more than a meaningful glance or a superficial conversation about work. Clint shifts uncomfortably in his chair. The tension isn’t subtle between Peggy and Steve, but she hates the fact that it’s so bloody obvious. She feels like others can feel her screaming obscenities at him, and his polite and passive mask doesn’t do justice to the fact that she can feel him repressing the urge to break things with his bare hands. He may have the act of indifference down to an artform, clean-shaven and poised, every bit of the statesman so many hoped he’d become. 

She knows what ticks underneath his skin, though.

More of the group files in, making small talk, pouring coffee. Maria requisitions a large cup, Bruce declines the offer – he never drinks caffeine – and since Thor is still on Asgard dealing with the Loki situation, there’s only one person missing from the roster. 

“Not to start off too predictable,” Tony greets as he enters, waving a hand, “but I got places to be, things to do, yadda, yadda.”

Steve expels a harsh breath. “Thanks for joining us, Tony. You’re only ten minutes late today.”

“I can always go back out and come in later, if that helps?” 

“We’ve got a situation on our hands that requires all hands-on deck.”

“When don’t we?” Tony replies. “Who is it this time? Russians? Aliens? Russian aliens?”

Steve drops a pile of files on the table, and Clint reaches forward to slide individual folders to everyone. Peggy palms one, flipping through a file marked ‘ _eyes only,_ ’ immediately freezing when she finds a picture of Bucky Barnes on the front collar. Dark overgrown hair, prosthetic limb, unshaven face – but undeniably, inexplicably Bucky Barnes.

Peggy’s eyes snap up to Steve, and he’s looking at her, too, when he says heavily, “The Russians developed their own version of the Super Soldier Serum. They’re used as enhanced assassins. The picture in front of you is one of five known assassins, both collectively and individually known as the Winter Soldier.”

“Huh,” Tony says, never one to miss an opening. “I was right. Russians.”

Natasha settles back in her chair. "Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe they exist, but this particular one is credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last fifty years. I had a run in with him five years ago, escorting an asset out of Iran. It wasn’t pretty."

Peggy feels the color drain from her face, the hot lick of indignation and anger at having this presented to her as coldly as this, in a briefing in front of everyone – it feels like a slap in the face. Bucky was Steve’s best friend from before the war, but it wasn’t as if Peggy hadn’t cared about him either. Hadn’t known him for years, hadn’t suffered grief at the loss of him when he’d fallen into that snow-banked cavern. Peggy tries to collect herself, fingers slipping through the pages of the dossier as she reads through the information. _Enhanced regenerative abilities, advanced physiology, durability and strength. Cryogenic stasis –_ at least that explained how he looked so young in the picture, as young as Peggy was when he should have been the same exact age as Steve. 

Of course, Steve doesn’t look as he old as he should either, seeming and acting decades younger than his age – the benefits of his soldier serum – but that’s beside the point. 

“We have word that they’re gearing up for a large-scale attack on everyone here,” Steve says. 

Bruce is flipping through the report, frowning. “And you think it’s a serious threat? No offense, but don’t we get threats all the time?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think it was a credible threat,” Steve replies. “The Other Guy may have an advantage, but you shouldn’t underestimate their capabilities. It’ll take more than a single suit of armor or fast reflexes to deal with these guys. That’s why I brought all of you in.”

“Yeah, okay, we get it,” Tony says, “They’re like Peggy. Or you, back in the day when you didn’t have to wear adult diapers—”

“Tony,” Peggy stops him. Normally she lets Tony run his mouth, knowing full well that trying to stem the arguments between Steve and Tony usually just ends up fueling it even more, but she isn’t in the mood today to deal with the bickering. She turns to Steve. “How long have you known about this?”

Steve can’t meet her stare. “A few years.”

She releases a breath, nods, and says nothing for the rest of the debriefing.

#

Afterwards, she waits until the others have filed out, sitting in her chair unmoving as a statue. Natasha gives her a look, eyebrow quirked, but Peggy just shakes her head and Natasha receives the message loud and clear, walking away without so much as a word. 

When they’re alone, Peggy turns to Steve. “You didn’t think I should know about this before?”

To his credit, he finally shows some morsel of remorse. “The intel developed quickly.”

“You just told me you knew about this for years.”

“The program, yes. Not Bucky. I didn’t—” he stops, sighs, struggles to contain his emotions. “I just found out about that.”

For a beat, just one moment, she can feel his wrought emotions over the soulbond, can feel the current of grief and pain, the shock of it, and she wants to go to him. She wants to wrap him up in her arms and sooth him, just like she’d done when he’d first lost Bucky. She remembers the grief his death had caused them all, the entire Howling Commandos, but none more than Steve.

But just as quickly, Steve’s emotions close off, even over the soulbond, and he straightens. He’s gotten good at that lately, far better than she’d ever thought him capable of. “I didn’t want you to find out like this, but it’s not like you’re taking my calls anymore.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she returns, affronted. “I stopped taking your calls because I got tired of our personal bullshit. If we really must carry on as if we don’t have a past, then I don’t particularly care to play out the drama any more than necessary. But if you’d have told me what this was about, you know I would have answered.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, because he knows she’s right. For all her hang ups, Peggy has always been nothing but professional when it comes to the job, an exemplary member of this team of ragtag heroes he’s thrown together. The Avengers. Fury may have come up with the name, but she’s genuinely surprised Steve had signed off on it; it doesn’t seem his style. 

She hates the fact that Steve is her boss, and that this subordinate/supervisor dynamic is the only aspect of their once-multifaceted relationship that he deems worthy enough to shoulder. She hates it, but she’s come to accept it as just another aspect of her world turned upside down since waking up in the twenty-first century. 

“Peg,” he says, quietly. “I’m gonna need your help on this one.”

She looks up, bracing herself with a deep breath. “You know I’ll do whatever I can. I just don’t appreciate being blindsided like this. Bucky was my friend, too.”

Steve sighs. “I know.”

The silence stretches out heavily between them. 

“This was Zola’s doing, wasn’t it?” Peggy asks, breaking the hush.

“Yes.”

The thought is horrifically distasteful, but it makes sense. “What do you think they’ve done to him?” 

“I don’t know,” Steve answers heavily, “but I don’t think I’ve got the imagination to come up with the worst of it. I doubt he’d recognize me, or you. The files I’ve gotten my hands on, they mention reprogramming. Brainwashing. Torture. Sixty years of that, on and off. I can’t imagine.”

Neither can she. She realizes it must pain Steve to come to terms with the fact that he won’t be able to fight this battle himself, having long ago stopped using his fists to break enemies. That’s all right. In his stead, Peggy has taken up the proverbial mantle and his literal shield. _Captain Britain_ , the papers called her, when she’d went into the water just before the war ended. All the powers, all the regenerative healing, all the speed of _Captain America_ , all thanks to their soulbond. She, at least, puts it to good use now. In the forties, they would have used her as a headliner in USO tours.

“I’ll find him, Steve,” she tells him, quietly. “I’ll bring him in.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” she agrees, then says softly, “But I’ll try.”

Steve clears his throat. “There’s something else. Something I’ve been meaning to tell you for some time. A position opened up on the World Security Counsel. Once this thing with Bucky is wrapped up, I’m… I’m stepping down from being the Director of Shield. Fury’s finally taking over.”

Peggy sits quietly, unsure of how to respond. “I thought that position was going to Alexander Pierce?”

“It might still,” Steve answers. “Alex is a strong candidate. Good guy.”

The Security Council would be a fool to choose anyone beside Steve, though. Not that Peggy isn’t biased, but he’s been on the front line since Project Rebirth those many decades ago, from soldier to agent to director, always the one holding the line back against enemies. For all of Peggy’s skills as a spy and a soldier, Steve has held a leading position within the espionage agency for longer than she’s been alive – her unintentional cryogenic freezing notwithstanding. 

His history has taken its toll, though, made him world-weary where he once stood tall and proud, the former embodiment of hope and sincerity. 

“This is a smart move, Peggy. You have no idea the power the Council holds, the things they would have done if I hadn’t managed to talk sense into them.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

He sighs. “Let’s just say, the world came very close to sacrificing freedom for security. The… _measures_ they nearly took,” he shakes his head in disgust. “If the Council had had its way, if _Fury_ had his way, we would all be categorized by threat levels, constantly monitored, constantly assessed. They have too much power. I’m hoping to remind them that the power should belong to the people.”

“You’ve been thinking about this for a while,” Peggy notes.

“Yeah, well, it’s past time. Hell, _I’m_ passed time.”

Peggy clenches her jaw and looks away. She hates it when he jokes about being too old. A normal man would have retired ages ago, but Steve hasn’t been normal since… ever. Not even when he was skinny and small. 

“The job will be in D.C.,” Steve says, quietly. “I’ll be giving up my Brooklyn place.”

Peggy swallows her response, understanding, feeling another knife-slice under her ribs. She’s sure he’ll use this as another excuse to remove himself further from any aspect of her life. In some ways, Peggy understands why he does so much to distance himself from her, because anything less than his full commitment to the bloody charade, and he’d lose the battle. His heart isn’t in the fight, because he wants her just as much as she wants him; that’s never been in doubt. But she knows he worries about ruining her life, bothered by the implications that he’ll waste the prime years of her life if she’s shackles herself to him. The self-sabotaging idiot.

“Is that all?” Peggy is already rising. 

He braces himself with a breath. “Yeah, that’ll be all, Captain.”

She leaves without looking back, but she knows just the same that he watches her go.

#

She gets the feeling she’s being followed, after that.

It doesn’t take long for her to notice a pattern. Peggy’s instincts on the subject are very rarely wrong. It’s the same man, twice in as many days. Dark skinned, slim build, glasses. She corners him in the parking lot, pinning him against the concrete pillar with an elbow at his throat.

“Hey, man!” the guy cries. “Just following the big guy’s orders! He told me to keep an eye on you.”

She pulls back. “Whose orders?” Although she already knows.

“Director Rogers.” 

#

This isn’t the first time he’s been overly protective of her. A few months after she was de-iced, she found herself with a friendly neighbor, a girl who Peggy belatedly discovered, after months of friendly hellos and passing waves, was her own bloody niece. The resulting fight with Steve had set them on a rocky path from the near start. 

It feels like déjà vu all over again.

She barges into his office unannounced because his secretary knows better than to try and stop her. “You’re having me followed again?” she demands, outraged.

Steve sighs, expression tight, as he sets a folder onto his desk tiredly. “They weren’t meant to interfere in your day to day activities.”

Peggy restrains herself, barely. “Tell me, does everyone on the Avengers merit a protection detail, or am I the sole beneficiary?”

“You’re the only one not staying at the Tower at the moment,” Steve tries. “It’s a simple matter of logistics.”

“Right,” Peggy says, nodding. “You’re very lucky I politely asked why someone was following me instead of just putting their head through a wall. The next time I might just assume it’s a threat.”

“They’re just doing their jobs, Peggy.”

“On your orders, which you can rescind.”

“I’m not letting you walk around without some additional layer of defense. Not with Bucky around.”

“I have an actual shield for that, or did you forget?”

He clenches his jaw. “This is a serious threat, Peg.”

“I still don’t need someone watching over me from the shadows.”

She means Steve, of course, not his protection detail. By the way his gaze falls away, she knows he understands that, and he knows he’s overstepped his bounds.

“Cut the detail,” she warns, “or I walk.”

She’s serious. She’s only ever accepted the job with the Avengers because her marketable skills in the twenty-first century are rather limited, but she’s been adapting for two years now, and the world isn’t quite as scary and unknown as it once was. She can venture out on her own, and she’s been more and more tempted by the prospect the longer she has to put up with Steve’s antics. He can act indifferent all he wants, but then he can’t stick her with his lackeys too because he’s feeling overprotective. He can’t have it both ways.

He must see her threat for the real warning that it is.

Reluctantly, tightly, he nods.

“Good.”

#

They try to take Clint out the following Tuesday.

Peggy sees the wreckage on the news before she gets confirmation from Jarvis, telling her an urgent request has been made for her to return to the Avengers tower immediately. Peggy is quickly on her way, hopping on her motorcycle but Interstate 86 is closed off, causing backup, and it isn’t until she pulls open the live news coverage on her phone that she realizes it’s because a bomb went off there. Three civilians dead already, another dozen wounded – and Peggy lifts her head. She can see the smoke and sirens from six blocks back. She takes the side streets and cuts through alleyways, riding up on pedestrian sidewalks in her rush to get through the madness.

She calls Natasha while she rides, because Peggy knows Nat will have the best info. A quick sit rep comes back – Clint’s alive, thankfully. They’re still assessing the injuries. Concussion, lacerations on the left side of his face, bruised ribs, and, unfortunately, a broken arm which has the obvious implications to his preferred weapon of choice. But Cho is already working on mending that.

When she arrives, she rushes inside to find Steve, watching through the plate glass window as Clint gets fixed up. She can feel the restrained concern radiating off him in waves, a grim-set face full of knowledge and unease. 

“Was it him?” Peggy asks quietly. “Was it Bucky?”

“No,” he tells her, shaking his head. “It was one of the others.”

She learns it was the lone female Winter Soldier, a blonde with a sharp jaw and scar across her right cheek. The reports are scattered, but there’s footage that makes it obvious they’re not just dealing with any enemy. There’s a shocking amount of brutality in the violence, a clear strategy of attack that demonstrates higher thinking. An elite hit, just as Steve warned. 

She starts to leave, needing something to do – but Steve stops her, hand on her arm. “Peggy—” Her eyes fly to his, because he never touches her anymore; won’t even risk the contact because there’s always a familiar overwrought current between them. He drops his hand as if burned, glancing away, taking a breath to center himself again, but she knows he feels the appetite just as much as she does. “Stay safe out there,” he tells her, recovering. “I need you to—just stay alert. They’ll send Bucky after you.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s what I would do,” Steve answers. “Use his familiarity to distract you, impair your judgement.”

But Peggy has her doubts. If Bucky is assigned to take down a threat using familiarity to his advantage, it isn’t going to be against Peggy. It’ll be against Steve. But she wonders if, in all of Steve’s oversight and vigilance, he’s somehow missed the notion that the Director of Shield would rank as one of the biggest threats, possibly even more than the Avengers themselves. Or, more likely, he just doesn't care enough.

“I’m worried, Peg,” he says. 

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

He releases a sharp exhale, finally reaching his limit. “How the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know. You seem fully capable of compartmentalizing. Run with it.”

It’s petty, but true.

“That isn’t fair,” he replies. “This isn’t—I’m allowed to show concern for… for one of my agents.”

“So, I’m Agent Carter again, am I?”

The situation must really be getting to him, because she can see him grinding his teeth in frustration. “You know what I mean.”

“I always know what you mean, Steve. That’s the problem. I’m just not fooled by it.”

“What do you want me to say?” he cracks, angrily. “You want me to admit I worry about you more than the others? Because I don’t see how that helps either one of us.”

“At least you’d be admitting the truth,” Peggy answers. She sighs. He probably isn’t overly concerned with his own protection. She imagines he wouldn’t like resources wasted on something as trivial as that. “Concern yourself with the others, Director. Maybe throw a little of that concern in your own direction while you’re at it. I likely won’t be Bucky’s prime target.”

She marches out the door because there’s nothing else to say.

#

Tony finds her shortly thereafter, in the cafeteria. “You knew one of them, didn’t you? One of the Winter Soldiers. You and Rogers both did.”

She looks up, already knowing where this is headed. She hadn’t acknowledged the familiarity in their earlier debriefing, not in front of everyone, but Peggy doesn’t see the point in denial. “I did. He was a close friend.”

“What was he like?”

It takes her a moment to muster a response. “A good man, who knew how to make people feel comfortable. He could charm the devil himself. You would have liked him. He was Steve’s best friend from childhood.”

“Well, that doesn’t speak well of his tastes,” Tony replies, frowning.

Peggy rolls her eyes. She will never figure out why Tony gets such a thrill out of pushing Steve’s buttons, but it’s one that clearly has a history of decades behind it. 

“There were old reports I dug up of Dad’s,” Tony tells her, popping a sunflower seed into his mouth. “Apparently in the forties you shacked up with Barnes for a few weeks in London?”

“Bucky was assigned to protect me,” Peggy answers shrewdly. “I was already soulbonded to Steve at the time, but Captain America was needed in the field, and I was recovering from a rather unfortunate incident in some mountains that involved assassins. Bucky was playing the good soldier, following Steve’s orders.”

“To protect you? Because I imagine you were a weak kitten back then, of course.”

Peggy almost smiles. “I wish I could say it was different times, Tony. Besides, Bucky ended up saving my life, so I probably shouldn’t complain about it too much.”

Tony snorts. “You just attract old timers, don’t you?”

“They’re not old to me,” Peggy tells him, tartly.

Tony settles into the table opposite her, sighing a little. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Rogers really is an idiot. You need to get laid, Queen Elizabeth. It’s not good to build up so much frustration.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response any more than a glare and a warning in one uplifted eyebrow. But the truth is she’s thought the same more than enough times. She just doesn’t appreciate the outside commentary. 

There’s a lull in the conversation, not uncomfortable, but not pleasant either. She’s found, to her great surprise, that she can actually get along with Tony much the same way she used to get along with Howard. She knows Howard never stopped looking for her, a fact she’s heard from multiple sources. She wonders if Tony feels beholden to her for some duty of care in his father’s wake. It’s a hopeless sentimentality, but nostalgia and sentiment are all Peggy has left to her name sometimes. 

“I’ve been doing research of my own,” Tony tells her. “These guys have a huge kill count, but there might be a weakness. They’re programmed, and like any programming, you just gotta break the code.”

Peggy sits forward. “And you think you can figure that out?”

“Nuerohacking isn’t my area of expertise but give me a day, I’m sure I can come up with something. Bruce is already on the ball.”

“In the meantime,” Natasha says, announcing her presence at the door, looking like hell, “I’ve heard some rumors that might help.”

“Rumors, Romanoff?” Tony asks. “You know I love some good gossip.”

“There’s codewords,” Natasha says. 

“Codewords?” Peggy says, interest piqued. 

“Rumors say there’s an old retired Soviet Colonel named Vasily Karpov. I never dealt with him in the Black Widow program, but he was rumored to use the same tricks to remake candidates.” Natasha forces a smile. “The right words, the right stimuli, the bad kind of motivation – it’s a cookbook for a compliant soldier. Codewords. If we get our hands on it,” Natasha says, then does a small shrug, meaning everything and nothing. 

“Where is Karpov now?” Peggy asks.

Natasha walks over, the corner of her face smudged with blood, likely Clint’s. “I can find that out, maybe. Give me some time.”

They have as much time as the next attack affords them, but Peggy doesn’t need to say that to Natasha. 

They’re all well aware this is just the beginning, just the opening salvo.

#

She hates that the breakdown in communication between her and Steve has led to this, but she watches over Steve’s house from the rooftop, not daring to go inside. The more she’s thought about it, the more she’s certain. Bucky won’t come after her. He’ll come after Steve. Which is why, at four a.m., she’s hunched over his rooftop shingles, blowing heat into her fingers. It’s cold, and although she always runs hot, she’s not impervious to it.

She hears the slide of a window opening. “When I told you to watch out for Bucky,” Steve tells her, warily, “this isn’t what I had in mind.”

Peggy refuses to answer. 

“Come inside, at least.” She hears Steve sigh. “You can protect me just the same from here. Probably better.”

After a beat, Peggy decides she can’t argue with that logic.

She drops down, swinging into the window from her ledge in one graceful bound, landing in his study. Steve moves aside to allow her to drop, standing in a gray sweater and dark slacks, a small smile struggling to stay hidden. He wants to be angry at her, she knows, but it’s hard sometimes, a familiar fondness in his chest that aches just a little too much. They both suffer from the same savior complex. Hers is just more straightforward, more in the limelight these days. She blames the shield. It’s hardly inconspicuous.

He steps aside, and gestures for her to go through the hallway. It isn’t the first time she’s been to his house, but it’s the first time she’s made it to the second floor. His place is tastefully decorated, warm hues of blues and whites, just the barest hints of dark colors. It’s an old Victorian brick building, built just as old as him, maybe older. 

In the hallway, there’s a series of framed art and service medals, his old military uniform pinned up in a shadow box. She studies the uniform for a beat, remembering exactly how it fit his shoulders, filled out nicely at his arms, narrowing in at his ridiculously tight waist. She moves across to a line of photos, mostly older than a few decades – the Howlies, Steve standing next to JFK, a few pictures with some kids that Peggy only distantly realizes are Michael’s kids when they were young. Sharon, and her younger brother, Carl. 

Peggy went into the water as the only surviving child, her brother dead three years at that point. When she came back out, it was to the mixed blessing; Steve had recovered Michael after years of imprisonment, and Michael went on to have a family, two kids. He’d been alive by some miracle, and then she lost him all over again anyway. She missed all of it. Steve hadn’t, though. He’d treated Michael like family, from all accounts. Her nieces all call him Uncle Steve. Apparently, he’d even introduced himself to Peggy’s mother early on, and Katherine Carter was a hard woman to pin down and win over, but Peggy knows Steve must have charmed her to high heaven. The thought always makes her smile, but it’s so strange when she considers he’s all but cut Peggy out of his life, yet still clings to any vestiges of her family like he’s still a faithful widower.

Her throat closes off when Steve says, “The kids keeps asking about you.”

“What do you tell them?” she asks, her voice soft. 

Steve is quiet for a beat. “That’ll you’ll get around to reconnecting with them in your own time. You just need space for the moment.”

She asked Steve once, in the beginning during an explosive fight, what on earth he’d been thinking assigning Sharon to her detail. _“I know you,”_ he told her, after struggling to find the words. “ _You wouldn’t get to know Sharon any other way. You’ll isolate yourself from them, given half the chance.”_

As much as it pains her to admit it, Steve has been proven right. It’s been almost two years. Peggy has seen Sharon around Shield headquarters, but that’s about all. Carl is a doctor, striking in his similarities to Michael. They’ve managed to all get together for lunch, just the once. The event had been awkward, brimming with sorrow and a pain Peggy could never put into words. They’re the only blood relatives she has left in the world, and they both look almost the same age as Peggy, despite the fact that Michael had been nearly in his sixties when he’d had them.

Peggy leaves the hallway, refusing to look at the rest of the pictures in the hallway. It’s mostly dark, only a few lights on in the entire house. She knows he would recognize it if someone else was in his house, but Peggy prefers to assure herself of the fact. Beams of streetlights flood in to illuminate the otherwise subtle darkness. Peggy switches a light on as she goes down the hall, while Steve watches knowingly from afar as she steadily makes her way through the house, one room at a time, checking windows, double-checking entry points. 

In the master bedroom, she finds his touches everywhere. His clothes for tomorrow already set out on a hook behind the door, a stack of hardcover books (mostly autobiographies) waiting to be read, a picture frame resting on the bedside table. She comes closer, surprised to find it’s a photo of herself from the forties. It’s almost withered yellow, but to Peggy, the photo still looks like how Peggy sees herself in her dreams, victory rolls down to her shoulders, uniform perfectly in place. Her eyes sting with the reminder, as well as the fact that the picture is placed in such a chief position. 

“What are you doing here, Peggy?” 

She turns to him, banishing the lump in her throat. “Bucky will come for you. You know this.”

Steve lets out a very dog-tired sigh. “So, I’m not allowed to worry about you, but you’re free to stand watch over me like some silent sentinel?”

“As you love to point out frequently in our conversations, you’re near retirement age. One of us is not like the other.”

He doesn’t like having his own words thrown back at him. His expression is still as a statue for a long moment, then he looks away, leading her downstairs to the kitchen. He sets about grabbing something from the cabinets, while she finishes checking out the downstairs. 

“Coffee,” she interrupts, when she sees he’s making tea for her. “I prefer coffee this late at night. Strong.”

He nods. It needs to taste like tar to do anything for either of them. He gets a pot going. After finishing her checks, Peggy slides onto a barstool in silence, drumming her fingernails against the countertop. Despite the late hour, he looks fresh, on alert. She doubts he’s managed much sleep the last few nights, but there’s no impression of that on him. No bags under his eyes, no sleep rumpled clothing, no weariness to his stance. He moves like a man half his age.

“So,” he says, “while we wait for my assassination, wanna watch a movie?”

It’s so unexpected, she barks a laugh.

It’s a call for truce, and after a moment, she decides to take it.

She sits on the sofa next to him, a full cushion space in between because Peggy isn’t planning on getting distracted. She keeps a line of sight on the front door and back. Steve flips through about a hundred channels before settling on something. An old movie, from the eighties. She says _old_ , but of course everything is new to her. It’s some film about artificial intelligence taking over the military’s nuclear arms program, running games because it can’t tell the difference between reality and play. Peggy thinks of Jarvis – and says nothing. She knows Steve is thinking the same thing.

Peggy tried, when she first got to the twenty-first century, to get a handle on everything on TV. She sat for a few days in front this idiotic box, trying to absorb everything, trying to get her bearings on the new world around her. It had only made things worse. More confusing. More frustrating.

Now, she’s adopted a _needs-must_ attitude, only watching the news and on occasion the BBC. American shows make her feel like her brain is liquifying slowly, but she says none of this to Steve. She knows without asking that he feels almost as antiquated as her when it comes to popular culture. As the movie plays out, he explains to her the things he doesn’t think she’ll understand, and she humors him, because she’s learned more than enough to follow along without explanation. 

It’s nice to hear his voice though, baritone and deep; it soothes her. 

#

Less than twenty-four hours later, Peggy is in Siberia in the middle of a firefight, and she’s distracted by the thought that she should have kissed him on that couch. Just forced him back and straddled his hips, taking over his mouth till he couldn’t think or protest, till there wasn’t a single inch of space between their bodies. 

It’s not really the type of thoughts she should be having in the middle of gunfight, but Peggy is multitasking.

At least, that is, until things turn hectic. It starts off routine enough. They’re following up on Natasha’s rumors regarding Karpov, and Peggy has practically the entire team as backup. Somehow, though, that’s almost not enough because there’s at least four Winter Soldiers on base, not to mention a squad of Soviet elites. That’s nearly enough to overpower the team. It’s only when the Hulk makes his appearance that they start to gain a foothold. 

The sirens are blazing as Peggy sprints down the hallway, overhearing Natasha on the comms, “Got eyes on Karpov. He’s in the command center, northeast quadrant, second floor.”

Peggy isn’t too far off. She bulldozes an armed guard through a door and rushes past. By the time she makes it to the command center, its already riddled with half a dozen unconscious guards. Natasha is at the keyboard, typing in commands. Karpov is slumped in the corner, face bruised and bloody, but still alert. 

“Did you find what we were looking for?” Peggy asks.

Natasha is still typing. “Give me a sec, we’ll get it.”

“ _Comrad, ubiystvo_!” Karpov shouts.

Peggy turns just in time to see the Winter Soldier – _Bucky_ – charge into the room like a battering ram. Peggy takes a hit that makes the side of her face go numb. He yanks Natasha off the console, simultaneously smashing the computer with his metal arm, causing sparks to fly everywhere. Peggy rebounds, tossing her shield at Bucky’s legs and caving him in at the knees. He drops Natasha, who rolls into a coil and pops back up on her feet. 

“Please,” Peggy tries, “It’s me, it’s Peggy Carter.”

There’s no recognition, just a full-frontal attack. 

Both Peggy and Natasha get drawn into fighting him at the same time, but it’s barely a draw. Every time one of them advances against him, he rebounds quicker, stronger, more calculated in his attack. Peggy darts across to trade a series of hard blows, but he rebounds quickly, and he sends her crashing back through a glass window. Peggy sits up, dazed, to find Natasha using her momentum to slam a fist into his groin; he grunts, redirecting his attention to grab Natasha by the throat and haul her around. Natasha wraps her legs around his waist, twists, bringing both of them down, assaulting him the entire dive down with a battering of punches.

Peggy re-strategizes, grabbing Karpov, dragging him around to face Bucky. “Stop! Or he’s dead.”

Bucky freezes as soon as he realizes his handler is in danger. He releases Natasha, who drops to the floor wheezing, face red and likely bruised at her throat.

“Tell him to stand down,” she tells Karpov.

Karpov complies with a quick Russian command.

Bucky stands down, mute and compliant. 

“You okay?” Peggy asks Natasha.

Natasha nods, grabs the USB drive off the monitor, and looks back. “Let’s get out of here before—”

But Karpov says something quick in Russian, gesturing to the computer behind him, the only one left intact. Peggy’s Russian is good enough to recognize the words _bomb_ when she hears it.

“Bucky, don’t!” Peggy screams.

There’s a pause, so slight Peggy might’ve imagined it, but then he jumps back and hits the command that sends the entire base into self-destruct mode. There’s a brief tussle after that, but the alarms blaring tell everyone they only have three minutes to get off base. 

“Cap, we gotta move,” Natasha urges, grabbing her by the arm. 

She stares at Bucky, and he stares right back, charcoaled-rimmed eye intense and concentrated. He always had such haunted eyes, even back during the war when she knew him last.

“We can do this another time,” Natasha tells her.

Peggy swallows hard, feeling like she’s failing Steve. “Another time,” she promises Bucky.

She lets Natasha drag her out the door.

#

On the quinjet back, she video-conference calls Steve from the back bench. “It was him, Steve. It was Bucky.”

Steve must have been bracing himself for this call, because he doesn’t look particularly surprised. Just disillusioned. “Did he recognize you?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t read anything off of him. It was like staring at a stranger.”

There’s a lengthy beat. “I should have been there.”

She wants to argue with him on that, tell him there was nothing he could have done. But the truth is she knows this won’t be solved with fists or bullets. From the video, she can tell he’s sitting at home because it’s still nighttime in New York, eleven hours difference. She hates that he’s home alone, but she just left Siberia and Bucky both behind her, so it’s hardly like he’s in imminent danger. 

But she wants to go to him again, tonight. She wants to sit on his overgrown sofa and watch bad TV with him. 

“I’ll talk to you later,” she tells Steve, about to sign off.

“Peggy,” he stops her. “Call me when you get back into town.”

It isn’t something she’d do, normally, but Peggy nods, not trusting her voice, and hangs up.

#

Steve is still the first thing she thinks about in the morning, and the last thing she thinks about at night. She wants to say it’s the same for him, that it has to be, that their soulbond is entirely too rooted in both of them that she can’t imagine it being any other way. But the truth is, he’s lived an entire life without her, spanning decades, fighting a war on all fronts. She hopes, despite her current desires at re-flaming their relationship, that he hadn’t spent that entire time reaching for a ghost. The thought makes her feel so immensely sad, far more alone than she already feels.

Steve’s house is silent tonight. There is no movie playing in the background, no dishes in the sink, no stack of books toppled on top of one another. A pair of Steve’s socks lay balled up in a corner, because as much of a neat freak as Steve is, he always had that horrid habit with his socks. She finds the old pet-peeve comforting. 

“So,” Peggy asks, unable to stop herself. “Are we going to address your pending job at any point?”

They can’t keep doing this, but Peggy doesn’t want to learn that lesson.

“What’s there to talk about?” Steve asks.

“The elephant in the room.”

She feels the overwhelming sense of déjà vu wash through him over the bond, because she’s picked those words deliberately. It’s the same exact phrase he used back in that shanty Polish Inn, when he’d been trying to get her to initially acknowledge their soulmark. It led to a make-out session and nearly a lot more. Up till that point, up until he’d said those exact words, she’d been so rigid in her denial, so obtuse in what the mark meant. 

Funny how the tables have turned. She rather hates it.

“We can’t do this anymore, Peg,” he says tiredly, like he barely has the energy to say the words. “I’m not good for you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the one to decide that for myself?”

“This might be one of those _listen to your elders_ scenarios.”

“Fuck you,” she spits. “Seriously, Steve, _fuck you_.”

She may be old fashioned, but she’s adapted to modern vernacular and obscenities when it suits her. She’s adapted to a lot of things. Peggy stares at him, eyes blazing, and for a beat the space between them runs hot, just a collection of things that make her see the old Steve – not the _older_ Steve – but the one she knew back in the day. Eyes heated, lips firmly pressed into a hard line, jawline cut from granite. 

He’s the first to look away, brace himself against the sink and then push off to walk towards the living room. She follows hot on his heels. “Didn’t people ever tell you to move on, walk away?” she asks him, already knowing the answer. “You never listened to them. Seventies years, and you never listened to them.”

“I was an idiot,” he says. “I’m trying to prevent you from making the same misstep.”

She clamps her mouth shut, because she doesn’t even know how to respond to that. 

Steve stops, crosses his arms over his chest, honorable and stubborn, his two most annoying qualities. “There’s nothing to discuss, Peg. You need to stay away from me as far as possible. Why do you think I’m taking the job in Washington?”

“It’s going to be as simple as that, is it?”

“It’s gonna be like that,” he agrees, heavily. 

It doesn’t matter how many times she tells him she doesn’t care about his age. Years, wrinkles, bloody arthritis, she doesn’t give a damn about any of that at all. He isn’t any less handsome than he was before – yes, there are fewer rippling muscles and the like, but he’s grown distinguished, attractive in a way that leaves women at an unfair disadvantage. But it shouldn’t even be about looks. Their connection has never been as superficial as that. Steve Rogers is her soul mate, and it doesn’t matter how much time has passed. She still loves him. He still loves her, a fact that he’s never bothered to deny despite his virtual unending supply of other denials. 

She drums up as much of that as she can through their bond, packs the emotions so tight it’s like a punch. She wants him to know how much every last rejection hurts her, wants him to understand what his misguided protection actually costs her every single time.

Steve takes a step back and releases a breath. “Peggy, stop,” he warns, voice barely a whisper. When he opens his eyes again, they’re glassy with a sheen of water. There’s plain desperation there, but grief too, grief at having lost her all those years, grief when she’s standing right in front of him. “This isn’t easy on me, either _.”_

“No one is putting us through this, except you.”

He clenches his jaw, breathes roughly through his nostrils once, and shakes his head.

“Right,” she says, eyes welling, knowing he won’t budge. He never does. “Keep your coffee. I’ll be posted outside.”

“You don’t have to—”

She’s already moving towards the door. 

It seems like she’s always walking away from him, but it’s more like he keeps pushing her to run.

#

After that, it’s silence. 

Not just between her and Steve, but over everything, it seems. The Winter Soldiers go dark, seemingly shifting underground so thoroughly that even Natasha’s network of spies can’t dredge up a whisper. The days pass by with everyone on edge, but the tension falls as the days turn into weeks, then months.

By the time fall rolls around, it’s like nothing ever happened.

“You going to the Council party?” Natasha asks.

Security Councilmen Rockwell is retiring. The spot hasn’t yet been filled by either Steve or Alexander Pierce, but Peggy tries to ignore all the gossip. 

Unfortunately, Natasha is her main source for that. “I hear it’s going to be quite the shindig.”

“Do, pray tell, what constitutes a shindig in this era?”

“Booze, mainly,” Natasha answers. “Fancy dresses. Steve in a tux.”

Peggy rolls her eyes and walks away, but Natasha isn’t that easily deterred. “You know what I do,” Natasha says, catching up, “when I’m trying to get a man’s undivided attention?”

“Yes, because I’m sure that’s a subject you have great difficulty in.”

“Men are pretty much wired the same. You should use that to your advantage.”

“Meaning what?” Peggy sighs. “Show a lot of cleavage? Yes, thank you, I’ve known that trick since before your grandmother was born.”

“Make him jealous,” Natasha offers, matter-of-factly. “He’s too used to having your eyes on him – and I get it. He looks at you the same way, at least when he thinks you’re not looking. But maybe shake that up a little bit? Throw a curve.”

Peggy really doesn’t see the point. It seems beneath her to play with men’s affections when she only wants one, but maybe there is some wisdom behind Natasha’s words. It isn’t something to be proud of, the idea of driving Steve to jealousy – but she’s so very tired of the walls he’s put up. It’d be nice to see them crumble a bit.

“Rumlow is going stag to the party,” Natasha offers, shamelessly. 

Peggy doesn’t comment. She’s seen enough of how his eyes track her in a room. It doesn’t take a genius to see his base interest for what it is, but she’s rather surprised Rumlow would have the spine to do anything with Peggy in plain view of his boss. She’s been approached plenty on the streets by random interested men, but never by her co-workers. Steve may think he acts indifferent towards her in public, but he runs a network of spies who are all used to deciphering body language and subtext. It isn’t as if the entire world doesn’t know about their soulbond, either. Flirting with the boss’ significant other, even one estranged, is generally frowned upon. 

Of course, Rumlow did always have more guts than brains.

And nice arms. She has a thing about arms now, thanks to Steve.

“You are a terrible friend,” she says to Natasha.

“I’m just trying to get my boss laid. I know he’s been celibate for decades, but Rogers has been a dick lately.”

#

Peggy is dressed to the nines: a deep blue evening gown that utilizes plenty of that cleavage trick she’d mentioned to Natasha. It isn’t to the point of risqué – she has plenty more than what’s on display – but the look draws attention as soon as she arrives in the ballroom. For once, her soulmark is not covered up with a liberal application of concealer makeup. It stands against her pale skin of her collarbone, the dark edges of the compass tattoo clear and stark. The dress clings to her form like a second skin, a slit up her thigh that barely manages to hide her thigh holster discreetly. Her hair is set in soft waves over her shoulders, a modest pair of diamond earrings and a delicate tennis-bracelet the only accessories she wears. 

Pepper is the first to find her. “You look gorgeous.”

“You’re a sight yourself,” Peggy returns. 

They both have rather the same tastes in clothes, albeit it’s a bit ironic that Pepper is more conservative tonight, a red dress with A-line cut, slender and elegant down to the floor. In the corner, she can see Natasha in a flattering black dress, backless and asymmetrical. Natasha meets her stare and lifts up a glass of champagne in a small little toast, apparently approving of Peggy’s chosen attire for the night. 

It has taken over a year for Peggy to feel at ease with Natasha, a relationship now Peggy considers a cornerstone, but sometimes Peggy wonders if the other woman isn’t just the devil in disguise.

With Pepper Potts, however, the friendship had been far quicker. Far easier. An early quick introduction from Tony after she’d been defrosted had led to coffee, which Peggy, at the time, didn’t realize had become such a bedrock in socializing and building relationships. She walked away rather liking Pepper from the start, and she’s only grown more fonder as the years pass. 

“Where’s Tony?” she asks Pepper.

“Not here yet,” Pepper answers, sighing. “He likes to be the last to arrive.”

They move into a circle joined by Natasha and Rhodey, who looks smart in his dress uniform. Small chatter works through the group, but Peggy doesn’t particularly join in. She wishes this was one of those times she could get pleasantly plastered, but Steve’s metabolism runs like an unstoppable engine, which means hers does too. It would do her some good to have a drink in her hand, in any case. She’s hardly the most lavishly dressed, but it’s been ages since she dressed in anything other than a uniform and professional wear, albeit with an eye towards flattering cuts. She feels like her look tonight is incomplete without a glass in her hand.

A while later, Rumlow appears at the table, greeting everyone familiarly. He certainly cleans up nicely, but Peggy frowns, wondering if Natasha said anything to him, because he sticks closer to Peggy than is entirely warranted. Despite her earlier brief impulse, in this moment, Peggy finds the idea of pursuing him suddenly hollow. Rumlow is everything that Steve thinks he isn’t anymore – young, strong, muscle-bound vitality. She isn’t trying to rub Steve’s nose in everything he thinks he isn’t. She doesn’t want it to look like she’s throwing herself at a poor substitute for who Steve once was – because that’s not what she wants, either. 

She keeps aloof from any meaningful conversation, especially with Rumlow. Over the rim of her Champaign glass, she levels Natasha a look that tells her to back off and make Rumlow heel. She knows the other woman gets it, by the shake of her head and a subtle shrug of Natasha’s shoulders, as if to say, _hey, I was only trying to help._

That’s when she feels it, the weight of a particular startling blue-gray pair of eyes on her back, a tense connection over the bond. She doesn’t turn around at first, unable to control her legs because the sentiment is one so age-old and worn, she’d nearly forgotten what it felt like to be pinned by his gaze so completely. He must have been caught off-guard by her dress because he’s refusing – or forgotten – to shutter off the soulbond so he can avoid having her read him. She can feel every inch of his surprise bloom, every lick of his desire as plainly as if they were trapped in a bedroom tangled up in sheets. 

When she finally turns around, acknowledging his presence across the room, the moment seems to stretch out interminably. He looks so positively still a hurricane couldn’t dislodge him from his rooted spot. And he is a sight in his tux, undeniably, one that renders her flush and warm. Not for the first time, she finds it criminal that he can dominate a room so completely, even surrounded by men half his age, men who have spent a lifetime trying to perfect their bodies, men in overpriced tuxedos, all polished and impressive. They pale in comparison to Steve, and she isn’t even sure it’s her bias speaking because his gravitas hasn’t lessened with age, but become refined, distinguished. He is still sinfully handsome, especially in a tux.

The moment breaks, however, when an announcement comes on over the speakers that dinner is being served.

“Shall we?” Pepper asks, guileless, gesturing to the elaborately decorated dining hall.

#

Steve sits at the head table, a line of rows that includes the Guest of Honor, all the other Security Council members, and Alexander Pierce. Peggy’s name is written on a small placard with a flourish of calligraphy, still front and center, but on a lower platform. Her chair faces away from Steve, but that doesn’t stop her from feeling the heavy weight of his stare on her every time she turns her profile to the side.

After dinner, there’s modest dancing. Thankfully, Natasha must have conveyed the message to Rumlow at some point, because he doesn’t bother asking for a dance. Peggy politely turns down a handful of other requests, sitting patiently, waiting for the right partner, but someone taps her on the shoulder about an hour later and she looks up in surprise at Alexander Pierce.

“I noticed you’ve declined every offer of dance,” he says.

“It’s the shoes, Mr. Secretary.”

“Please call me Alex. I think it would be a crime if you didn’t at least have one dance.” he asks, with a charming smile. “May I?”

She isn’t trying to play into anyone’s jealousy when Peggy takes his hand. It’s just that she knows how politics and presentation play, in such an environment. She’d be a fool to turn down the Secretary of Shield. She smiles demurely as he pulls her onto the dancefloor, which is filled with enough bodies that she knows she’s hidden from Steve’s immediate line of sight.

“These things are horrible, aren’t they?” Alex says. “I’ve never been a fan of pomp and circumstance.”

“It’s a retirement party,” Peggy offers. “It can’t be all bad to celebrate the accomplishments in one’s life.”

Then she remembers she’s talking to the man who turned down the Nobel Peace Prize.

If he sees her embarrassment, he doesn’t show it. They make small talk for a short period of time, but it quickly becomes apparent that he hadn’t asked her to the dancefloor merely for benign pleasantries. “I wanted to know if I could pick your brain on a matter.”

Peggy lifts an eyebrow, waiting, knowing instinctively where this is going.

“Steve Rogers,” he says. “Every time I think I have the man figured out, he throws me for a loop.”

“He isn’t a hard man to figure out,” she replies, simply. “He might be one of the most straight-forward people in the business, especially ours.”

“But things aren’t always straight-forward, _especially_ in our business.”

She can agree with that, enough. Steve always had a more black-and-white view of things than even Peggy personally subscribed to. It isn’t that she disagreed with Steve on any one principle (their personal issues aside), but she’s come to realize the world has far more shades of gray than anything else. 

“Take security, for example,” Alex says. “In order to have a world safeguarded against chaos, certain prices must be paid. The times when the villains rip their faces off to reveal the devil underneath are long gone. Not everyone is so upfront about their demons.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.”

“I wonder if Steve Rogers has.”

Peggy pauses. She realizes that Alex must be talking about the _measures_ Steve had mentioned earlier, the categorization of the populace by threat levels, constantly monitored, constantly assessed. It appears to be a bone of contention between Alex and Steve. 

“What is it exactly that you’re saying, Alex? I do appreciate a direct approach.”

“There’s a project called Insight,” Alex says. “Steve is adamantly opposed to allowing funding, but I think you might be the one person to persuade him otherwise. You should talk to him about it. I’ve already updated your clearance.”

“I don’t believe I should get in the way of politics,” Peggy answers, “Or a pissing match, which I’m starting to gather is what this is.”

“It isn’t,” Alex replies, though he’s smiling.

“Why? Both of you too old?”

“God, no.” Alex laughs, then says meaningfully, “Men are never too old for some things.”

She’s struck by the differences in Alex and Steve in that moment. Alex has a confident allure to him. He can dance with Peggy without a care of how the age difference makes them look. The thought appeals to her on a level she hasn’t felt in ages, a low warmth and perhaps understanding passing between them. 

“Excuse me,” she says, pulling away, unsettled by the moment for reasons she can’t define.

She leaves without waiting for a response, trekking through the crowds towards the women’s restroom, needing a moment of privacy. She catches sight of Steve through the crowd, but she can’t hold his gaze. She blocks out his emotions over the bond, ignoring the fact that the sight of her in Alexander Pierce’s arms had done more to stir jealousy than anything Rumlow had offered her the entire night. Was it petty jealousy? Or was it something more? Something that recognized a man as finely aged as Alex could turn her head more than any chiseled body?

It would serve Steve right, but mostly Peggy feels unnerved by the realization herself. 

#

She retreats to the bathroom to splash some water on her face. Except, of course, when she is finally left alone in front of the jewel-rimmed mirror, she realizes she can’t actually do that as she has makeup on that took nearly thirty minutes to apply. She takes a few minutes to regroup, trying to quell the erratic beating of her heart, the surge of emotions too many and too dark to name.

_Men are never too old for some things._

She winces at the brutal honesty in Alex’s words, something that was no doubt carefully chosen for its intended audience. How many times is she supposed to make a fool of herself? How many people pitied her for clinging to a soulbond that had made it abundantly clear he wanted distance more than anything else? And she kept throwing herself at him.

She can’t do this anymore. She has to move on. Be done with being a fool. Be done with hoping Steve would change his mind. Be done with praying for any semblance of what they’d had before. It’s all ruined, like all the things in her life. Destroyed, remolded, gone – in a blink of an eye that spanned seven decades. 

She leaves the bathroom, halfway down the hall, headed towards the exit, when a hand shoots out and snags her around the wrist.

“We need to talk,” Steve says. 

Startled, Peggy lets Steve propel her back down the hallway, past the bathrooms, towards the rear exit. They spill out into a dark alley behind the ballroom, and the large metal door slams shut behind them. He pulls out a small black device, compressing a button, and the red lights on the security cameras in the area go dark and blink out. 

“What did Alex say to you?” he asks.

“What?”

“What did you talk about?” he demands.

She blinks at him. “Project Insight.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. “And?”

“And what?”

“What else did he say, Peggy? He said something that upset you, and it wasn’t about some project I’ve already mothballed.”

She finally recovers, gaining back some of her footing, realizing it isn’t some matter of national security, but more of this pissing contest. She isn’t amused and despite earlier efforts, she has no desire to inspire even the barest hints of jealousy in Steve anymore. As far as she’s concerned, both Alex and Steve can go fuck themselves.

“It doesn’t matter,” she answers. “None of this matters.”

“Of course, it matt—” 

“No, Steve, stop.”

Peggy can’t do this anymore. Her battered dignity won’t allow it.

“You’re right,” she finds herself saying, knowing the soulbond is conveying the gravity of her words. “You and me, we’re not meant to be. A soulbond is only so strong, and I’m tired of being the only one fighting for it. You win. I’m out. I wish you the best of luck in D.C. You’ll forgive me if I don’t visi—”

Peggy is cut off, back peddled against the wall as Steve’s lips moves roughly against hers. It’s almost furious if not for the fact that not a lot can overwhelm Peggy. Steve can. He’s always had an ability to strip her defense bare, overwhelm her senses in a way too delightfully enticing that she can hardly do it justice in words. His tongue is in her mouth, demanding and aggressive, but none of the intensity really makes it feel real, because she’s been pushing for this for so long and the instant – the very fucking _instant_ – she says she’s through, he’s kissing her like his life depended on it.

She rips her mouth away and shoves him back. “I thought you wanted to _talk_ ,” she manages, roughly, hating the breathless quality of her voice.

She jerks away and gets some distance between them. Not enough, because her body is kicked into overdrive, and she can feel his desire running amuck over the bond, completely taken over for him. She hasn’t felt this type of urgency in so long, she’d forgotten the potency of it by half. But she isn’t in the mood for a mindless fuck, and she largely suspects Steve’s tightly wound libido is calling the shots. 

“Jesus,” Steve mutters, getting a handle on himself. He rubs the back of his head and peeks at her, sidelong. “I—I’m sorry, Peg.”

She raises a hand, warning. “Save it. I don’t want to hear it.”

But he doesn’t listen; he never fucking listens to her, always thinking he knows best. “I just—I was reacting to the soulbond. I know I shouldn’t. I thought I had it under control.”

All she can think to say is, “Christ, Natasha was right. You need to get laid.”

Steve winces at that, such a wholly annoyed but self-depreciating look, so familiar on his face that she almost laughs, because that is it, isn’t it? Steve hadn’t thought about the long-term consequences of fucking her. He hadn’t weighed the pros and cons, and decided to commit himself to reconnecting their soulbond. It was just his bruised ego and libido overtaking him for a moment.

“Okay,” she says, angrily. “That’s what you want? I can give you that.”

She shoves him back against the same wall he’d just had her pinned against. This time, she takes over his mouth and the kiss is a blur, stupid and foolish, and all too potent to deny. She bites angrily at his lips and he groans, his hands fisting in her hair, and already their expensive clothing is disheveled and in an all too telling state. His mouth latches onto patches of her exposed skin, sucking a bruise on top of her soulmark compass, making her whimper. She can feel his hardened press against her thigh and knows what’s she about to do, right here, right now, in the middle of a public place where half her friends and all of Shield could walk out on them. She doesn’t care.

She knows what she’s going to do. 

She drops to her knees, hearing him inhale sharply, “ _Peggy,”_ as she starts unclenching his belt. She works fast, because she wants this in a frenzy, wants this to feel as inevitable and insatiable as it’s felt for her over the years. She feels the length of him through his trousers, rubbing urgently until he’s trying to pull her back up, but she bats his hands away and finishes freeing him from the material of his pants and boxers. She gets him free and wastes no time in taking him in her mouth. 

She takes a moment to adjust to the familiar length and width of him, then slides her mouth down the base of his erection, taking him in as fully as she can. He curses harshly, his hips bucking up into her mouth involuntarily. She keeps on him, working her hand up and down his shaft in time with the journey of her mouth. Steve leans back against the wall, eyes screwed shut, and when she pauses for a breath, she looks up, he’s every bit as gorgeous as she remembers.

She works him full-throated, hands and mouth working in synchronization, remembering exactly how he likes it, how uncontrollable his hips get when she finds the perfect rhythm. She remembers all the ways that can break him the fastest, and she employs every trick, sucking hard enough that he’s groaning, fumbling to push her back while he warns her that he’s about to come.

Peggy just continues to suck him off, staying on him relentlessly, coaxing a quick release that has him grunting against the wall. 

There’s a persistent want between her thighs, but Peggy stubbornly ignores it as she rises. “You have any idea how many nights I’ve spent thinking about doing that to you?” she asks. “Do you have any idea how many times I’ve touched myself thinking about this?”

He is breathing harshly, heavy lidded eyes opening as he reaches for her, clearly intending to return the favor.

But Peggy steps firmly out of his reach. 

She fixes a strap on her dress that fell off her shoulder and adjusts her dress. She has a rather obvious blemish over her collarbone and soulmark, courtesy of Steve's mouth, but she knows it'll disappear within minutes. Her hair is a lost cause because he had his hands all over it, but she doesn’t plan on returning to the party. From this alleyway, she can easily slip into her car unnoticed. 

She offers Steve only a few words. “Clean up before you head back in there. I wouldn’t think you'd want anyone to know what just happened.”

She turns to leave, and he sounds dazed, “Peggy, wait.”

“What have I said to you, Steve? Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

She exits out the alleyway, wiping discreetly at her mouth. If she knows anything about Steve, the fact that he wasn’t able to give her any release in return is going to haunt him. It’s going to frustrate him in a way that being denied his own release couldn’t manage. He’s always been so keyed up, so focused on doing what he should do, for the greater cause. She imagines she’s thrown that for a tailspin tonight.

It isn’t the satisfaction she thought she’d be chasing tonight, but somehow, in some twisted way, it feels better than that.

He had it coming. 

#


	2. Chapter 2

Peggy takes the turns hard on the cliffside road, shifting her sports car into a higher gear as the car speeds hastily along the curves. She’s always been a rather daring driver, but over the years she likes to think she’s grown collected and assured, not as easily spurred to heedless driving as she was once in her youth. Tonight, however, she feels all of that slipping through her fingers. The sight of Steve, dazed and satiated, is one that’s going to haunt her, for all that she’s gained in leaving him in that state. Peggy feels like she took back a little bit of control, regained the upper hand, as it were. Unfortunate that it came at the cost of finding her own release, but Peggy is only an hour away from ditching the deep blue evening gown in favor of something more indulgent and comforting, before she plans on taking care of herself.

Thankfully the road home has been vacant for miles, so she expels a little of her frustration by going so far past the speed limit, caution seems to be a distant blur in the horizon behind her. 

It isn’t until she’s halfway home that she sees the police blockade. She slows her car to a stop at the checkpoint, shifting the gear into park. The man in a blue uniform taps a baton against her window, and Peggy rolls down the window. 

The officer says, “We’re doing an immigration checkpoint. Tell me, ma’am, are you a US Citizen?”

Oh, for heaven sake. “Am I being detained, Officer?” she asks, tiredly.

“Excuse me?”

“Am I being detained?”

“Ma’am, it’s a simple question. Please don’t make this into a thing. Are you a US Citizen?”

“I don’t have to answer your question. Aside from the numerous constitutional issues that I am sure you're aware of, I asked about detention because you would need probable cause for—” she stops short, eyes falling to the badge on his uniform. It’s a fake, she can tell.

She glances around, taking in the heavily reinforced roadblock, the three other uniformed men getting out from a squad car, the additional three on motorcycles – all carrying ammunition and gunpower excessive even by US law enforcement standards. She realizes all too suddenly what is happening. In the rearview mirror, a large 18-wheeler truck comes down the road, slowing down only marginally, on course to wedge her in to an indefensible position.

“Bloody hell,” Peggy swears, then shifts into reverse. 

She manages to scarcely avoid the semi-truck, the tires screeches off the pavement and hitting dirt just as a rocket launcher strikes the pavement in the spot she just abandoned; Peggy narrowly avoids the blast, overtaking the three “officers” on motorcycles, speeding down the road past the blockade. As sure as the sun rises, they give chase, flashing sirens behind in a wail.

The cliffside road ahead is dark, but Peggy’s eyes are sure and clear. She hugs the curves of the road tightly, pressing the accelerator to the floor as a barrage of bullets hit the backside of her car. Bullet-proof glass, of course, as is standard for any car that an agent of Shield would utilize. Peggy grips the steering wheel and swerves into one motorcycle, flipping it over to crash back down on its side, skidding across the pavement. 

There’s a quick car chase after that, involving a growing entourage of black-tinted vehicles, all muscled up and heavy duty. Her sports car leaves them all in the dust after a few expert maneuvers, but her problems are hardly in the rearview mirror. She comes up a blind turn when, out of nowhere, a man stands as a solitary figure in the middle of the road. 

_Bucky._

She swerves the car out of instinct, avoiding gutting him with her vehicle, but in the process ends up flipping her sports car over the cliffside. Her car tumbles end-over-end on the rocks, compacting like a rumpled tin can, until it stops with a last lurching screech at the bottom of the cliff. 

Peggy coughs up blood. Dazed, confused, she tries to remove the seatbelt, but she’s trapped. Her hands are slippery with blood when she wrenches the fabric in two, then smashes the window with her elbow to escape. She crawls through broken glass out of the demolished car, landing on rough gravel in a pair of broken stilettos. She looks up, and already she can see Bucky descending the cliffside swiftly in agile progress. 

She moves to the trunk, a half-caved coffer, but when she reaches inside, her shield is undented. She must look a ridiculous sight, evening gown all torn asunder and bloody, bracing her shield against a wrist adorned with a delicate diamond-studded tennis bracelet. 

“You don’t want to do this,” she says to Bucky. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. We call you Bucky – Steve and I.”

There’s a falter this time, more than the last time she’d tried this. It’s long enough that Peggy catches a glimpse of hesitation before it burrows back under a predatory glare. The last time she’d fought Bucky, Natasha had cornered her afterwards, calling Peggy out on the fact that she’d held herself back in the fight. 

Peggy can’t do that this time, if it comes to it.

_Please, dear god, don’t let it come to it._

“Steve,” she says again. “Steve Rogers, your oldest friend. I can take you to him. I can get you the help you need. We want to protect you.”

“Why would you do that?” he snarls.

“Because we care about you,” she says. “We may be the only ones in the world left that do.”

But Bucky attacks, and Peggy knows words won’t bring him to heel. 

She uses her shield to deflect his assault at first – then like a hammer, hitting him with a blunt end, again and again, using the momentum of her body to drive Bucky back. His mouth twists into a snarl as he dives into a roundhouse kick, punting her shield away. But she’d had a hell of a night long before being pitched off a cliffside. There are too many things wrong with this picture, too many horrible things transpiring in her life – Bucky’s horrific reemergence, Steve’s stubborn nature, all the things disgraceful and wrong in her world ever since waking up from that damned ice. Pent up frustration fuels her movements, along with anger and resentment and a thousand other darker emotions, and she escapes into the release that only a fight can bring. 

She swings out with a hard jab, fist connecting with a square jaw, and he staggers back. 

Then it’s a knock-down drag-out fight. Teeth, groin-hits, a solid welt that makes her recoil while he grabs her hair and drags her across the ground. His metal arm clenches at her scalp, and Peggy pivots, coils her body into a snake, wrapping herself around him, and hauls him to the floor. She braces her arm against his throat, but he emerges with a knife out of nowhere, intending to slash her face, but she grabs his hand last second – thankfully not his metal arm – the blade an inch away from her eye. She grits her teeth, using all her strength to keep his hand from reaching its goal. 

Suddenly, a dart hits Bucky in the neck. Then another, and finally, a third. His eyes roll backwards in his head and Bucky passes out, unconscious. Peggy whirls back to find Tony flying over the cliffside in his Iron Man suit. She hears the ultrasonic pulse raised in warning against Bucky. But its redundant; Bucky is unconscious, at least for the moment. She has no delusions that will last. A tranq or three won’t keep him down for long.

Peggy let’s her exhaustion seep through. “What are you doing here, Tony?”

“Fashionably late to the party,” he says.

It takes a second for Peggy to realize he isn’t using a metaphor. He really was on his way to the party she had just left, with his usual punctuality in play. He must have seen the wreckage from the roadside – and, clearly, he kept his superhero accessories in the trunk just as much as she did. She imagines he dealt with the HYDRA agents left in her wake. 

Stark says, “What are we going to do with him?”

“Begin deconditioning, I imagine. We still have a rather sizable amount of information to comb through from our Siberian mission. Something in those mainframes should help.”

“I’ll get on that,” Tony says. “For some reason, a lot of the files were deemed classified above my pay grade. Not that the American government actually pays me.”

“If it’s classified, it’s for a reason, Tony.”

“Yes,” Tony agrees, “and I intend to find out what that is.”

She’s too tired to deal with him at this moment. Besides, Tony would do what he damn-well pleases, and consequences will inevitably fall out where they may. Like father, like son.

“Have you called this in?” she asks Tony.

“Yeah, the cavalry should be here any second now to gather up your Manchurian Candidate. Rogers will be pleased, at least.”

“Yes, twice in one night,” Peggy mutters under her breath, rising to her feet. 

Steve should be plenty pleased.

#

Of course, Steve is _not_ pleased, especially when he sees her hauled up in the Avenger Tower infirmary, being treated for a hundred one scrapes and bruises, but she really doesn’t give a damn. Dr. Cho has just left her bedside, a not so subtle reminder that physical intimacy with a soulbond after a traumatic event has been proven clinically helpful in the healing process. Instead, Peggy is rather committed to relying on her standard regeneration healing (also thanks to the soulbond). She pointedly ignores the fact that Steve is still in his tux, the trousers she’d left half gaping open the last time she saw him now neatly tucked back into place. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, in concern.

“Marvelous,” she breathes, packing her ire fully into the singular word.

Steve stops short. For a moment, he looks every bit the Private recruit she first met, skittish and unsure of himself, unsure of how to approach _dames_ , as he liked to call them and even her on one eventful car ride. 

He finally gathers himself, rather awkwardly. “Look, Peg, I should probably… say something about what happened tonight.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Yes, _damn it_ , there is,” he says, and his vehemence surprises her. “Look, I know I haven’t been handling this well – you and me. I’ve been repressing these feelings for so long, I forgot what it felt like to just… give into them, even for a moment.”

She swings her legs over the side of the gurney, shaking her head. “Is this supposed to be a revelation? Because I’ve been telling you that since the moment I opened my eyes here. It took me saying I wanted to walk away from you to—” she cuts herself off, angry. “I’m not something you can toy with like that, Steve. Do you have any idea how much pain you’ve put me through because of your bloody denial and stubbornness?”

“It hasn’t been easy on my end, either,” Steve returns, tightly. “I had to watch you every day, too. Be near enough to touch you, but never reach out.”

She is so angry that she feels like crying. God, what a waste. 

When he steps forward, she flinches, bracing herself for – _what_ , she isn’t even sure. Pain of some type, certainly. She knows he needs to touch her, though, knows it would be impossible after the lust-laden escapade from earlier tonight. She isn’t looking for just sex, though. If she wanted that, she could have had her pick of partners.

“Don’t,” she warns Steve, far softer than she intends. “Don’t start something.”

It feels like a dream, though, like something not real when he reaches out to brush a wayward lock of hair away from her eyes, his palm radiating warmth against her skin. She turns her face into his palm, even while waiting for the moment he’ll pull back – because he _always_ pulls back. He’s probably going to regret this, isn’t he, in the morning? He’s probably going to come down from this high, this iridescent charge between them just from a touch, because right now he is still in the midst of panic – panic at the thought of losing her, either by her own withdrawal or because he feels he almost lost her to Bucky’s mad rampage. 

Whatever else that could be said – or done – in that moment, however, is forever lost.

The pair of infirmary doors slam open, thrown back so hard it hits the walls with a bang. “How long have you known?” Tony demands in a frenzied state, barging into the room. He doesn’t look like he’s noticed the scene in front of him, or maybe he just doesn’t particularly care. “How fucking _long_ , Rogers?”

Steve takes a step back, eyes connecting with Tony. Despite the ambiguous accusation, it’s clear that Steve quickly catches onto the meaning. “Tony,” he breathes, but he can’t find any words.

Peggy looks between the two, confused. “What’s the meaning of this?”

Tony’s eyes cut from Steve to Peggy, displaying a rage she’s never seen before. “What about you? Did you know?”

“Know what?” she demands, archly.

“Barnes,” Tony growls.

She nakedly looks to Steve for clarification, but he isn’t looking at her. “What about him?”

Tony eyes her, and her affronted confusion must seem genuine enough to him because he takes a bracing breath, briefly relieved, and turns his ire back towards Steve. “He killed my parents.”

Peggy gasps. It’s like someone knocked the wind clean out of her. It’s as if she can’t find any oxygen in the room to draw into her lungs. The thought is too horrific, and she turns to Steve for confirmation – but praying for a denial. 

“Is it true?” she demands. “He killed Howard?”

“Of course, it’s true,” Tony snaps. “I discovered it in his own goddamn mainframe, sealed for his eyes only. _Director Rogers, Steven J._ He was trying to cover it up.”

Steve forces himself to meet Tony’s stare, eyes guilt-ridden. “I wasn’t trying to cover it up. I was going to tell you, Tony—” 

Tony moves, and it’s a credit to Peggy’s reflexes that she manages to fly off her gurney to stand between them. “Tony, don’t,” she pleads. “Don’t. This isn’t what you want to do.”

“Yes, it fucking is,” Tony seethes, incensed.

“I deserve every bit of anger you throw down,” Steve says calmly, behind her. “But it wasn’t him in control, Tony. It wasn’t Bucky’s choice—”

Tony charges, and for a blind second it’s all Peggy can do to hold him back. She’s suddenly thankful he isn’t in his Iron Man suit, but it hurts, just the same, to have to slam Tony into the wall to keep him from attacking. 

“Tony, please,” she pleads, “this isn’t going to help with anything.”

Against the wall, Tony’s anger morphs into a haunted look as his eyes fall to her. “There was a video, Peg. He rammed my father’s face into the steering wheel. He—he choked my mom.” 

Peggy swallows back the horror like bile, and releases him gently. She can see a sheen of tears welling in his eyes, his muscles working to clear his throat of emotion. 

“Tony,” Steve says, softly, pained. “I’m sorry.”

His anger reignites with a flash. “See? This is why I always hated you. Your sanctimonious bullshit. Take your star-spangled righteousness and shove it exactly where that pole has been wedged for decades. You act so fucking superior, but you’re no better than the rest of us. Hypocrite. _Liar_.”

No one says anything in response to that. 

Tony’s hands are trembling, and he grits his teeth, chest heaving, trying to get himself under control. “You’re just lucky I don’t hit withered old men.”

He’s out the door before anyone can say anything else. 

Peggy stares at the exit for a long time, needing a moment to recover, chasing after something steady to catch purchase on, some firm grip or solid ground. For a moment, for one blind moment, she genuinely thought Tony was going to come to blows with Steve – and Peggy’s instinctual reaction had been to protect Steve. Steve, who likely didn’t need the protection and, in this instance, didn’t even _deserve_ it. Peggy slams her eyes shut in shame.

She turns around. “You knew this entire time?” she asks him.

Steve looks pale, stung with guilt. He takes a deep breath and drags his hand through his hair, a gesture of youthful indiscretion that he has never outgrown. “There were rumors, when the accident happened. Things that didn’t add up, but I swear, Peggy, I didn’t know anything for certain until you recovered the data from Siberia.”

“Jesus,” she breathes, just staring at him.

It comes to her with the same revelatory surge as it had earlier in the night too, in that restroom. She can’t do this anymore. Steve had made a calculated move to keep this awful secret hidden from Tony. It’s shocking how much he’s changed, how much the world has changed him, in all those decades in her absence. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such a premeditated lie.

Suddenly, Peggy realizes, she doesn’t know Steve half as well as she thinks she does.

It seems all of her misconceptions of Steve – of any chance of _them_ , together – are shattering in one night. She can’t do this. She can’t keep blindly following his orders, blindly trusting him in the hopes of capturing something that was clearly long gone. Her words from earlier in the night suddenly feel too poignant. _We’re not meant to be_. They don’t fit together the way they used to, and Peggy is done trying to delude herself of anything else. This night has brought that to such harsh lights in so many ways.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispers, tightly.

His eyes darken with realization. “Peggy.” He takes a shaky breath, releasing it slowly, the gravity of the moment slamming into him. “There has to be something I can do, something… _something_ to change your mind.”

God, she’s spent the last two years chasing after him, hoping for him to finally come to this very same realization, that he wanted her in his life, that he didn’t want to hold back anymore, but it’s come too little, too late. 

They always did have the worst timing in the world.

#

She spends the next few weeks in London, needing distance and time. She wants the comfort of… _home_ , and as much as New York has been a place to lay her head down, a place to regroup, a place to learn and grow and fight and live – it has never been home. She returns to England, expecting the familiar lush green lands, but it’s changed too. Not as much as America has since she first laid eyes on it, but enough that even familiar things – _afternoon tea, umbrellas abounding in rainstorms, Cornish pastries, minding the gap_ – there are ten times as many things that have changed. Whether she likes it or not, she will never get them back. 

Tony finds her the third week, having flown in on his private jet on what he attests to as a spontaneous visit. She knew he was coming, though, not because he’d done anything as congenial as announcing his stopover ahead of time, but because it felt a little bit inevitable. 

They stop for lunch at a local café around the corner from where she’s staying. “I have to get some coffee,” Tony says, looking around for a waitress. “I told Pepper I was going out for coffee with a friend. Failed to mention it was overseas, but that doesn’t necessarily make me a liar unless I fail to get the coffee.”

“I don’t know why she puts up with you,” Peggy says.

“It’s a question everyone has asked her at one point or another, even me.” He turns back to her, eyebrow lifting. “So, I’m hoping this jaunt across the pond means you’ve finally come to your senses.”

“Meaning?”

“You were always worth ten of him, Peg.”

“Tony,” she sighs.

“What? I know the whole soulbond thing is a bit of a setback, but look at the bright side. You just saved yourself the future trauma of having him croak on top of you from a heart attack.”

She really isn’t in the mood for this. “Why are you here, Tony?”

There’s a moment of silence. “I quit the Avengers,” he tells her, not even bothering to look at her. 

It’s not… unexpected, but it stings just the same. “What do you plan to do now?”

“Beats me. Too old to join the Boy Scouts. Maybe I can start a rock band?”

“Pepper will be a bit relieved, I imagine.”

“Please, Pepper knows me well enough to know I was Iron Man long before I was ever an Avenger. This changes almost nothing in my day-to-day life except for the fact that I can tell Rogers to go _suck it_ from a distance, rather than in formal inter-office memorandums.” 

“They’re going to try and rehabilitate Barnes,” she says. “And if that’s the reason why you quit, it’s a foolish one. Barnes is as much a victim in this as your parents, Tony.”

He snorts, eyes darkening, but doesn’t acknowledge the words. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Peggy asks, simply to deflect the answer for a bit longer. 

He only side-eyes her with curiosity. “What are you going to do now that you’ve finally dropped the old man’s husk?”

Peggy bristles. She wants to tell him to stop calling Steve these silly names. She wants to retort so sharply and pithily that it will tame some of the acid behind Tony’s words. Grudgingly, though, she does no such thing. For the time being, she’s through with defending Steve.

Instead, Peggy admits, a bit stilted, “I haven’t figured out what comes next. For as long as I can remember, there was always an enemy to fight. I feel as if it’s getting harder to find my place in the battle, though.”

“You could quit the Avengers and join me.”

“Start that rock band you so want?”

“I bet you I could get Bruce, too. Maybe Thor.”

Peggy gives a rueful laugh, then looks over, catching his eyes, and the levity fails. “You’re being serious.”

Tony nods. “Shield is an overreaching, blubbering organization. Ditch it.”

“You’re talking about an organization that I’ve been a part of, in one way or another, since the second World War. I was there, Tony, at the beginning before it was even called Shield. As was your father. I’d thank you not to sully its name.”

“Fine, whatever. But I can fund a new team, without all the red tape.” He manages to display a modicum of restraint without mentioning Steve in the sentence. “We could do this.”

Peggy shakes her head, incredulous. “That’s why you came here? To offer me a job?”

“England should be a nice getaway, but eventually you’ll want to return back to reality. When that happens, I just want to make sure you know you have your options open.”

#

The following week, a well-dressed man delivers a package with flowers. At first, a part of her thinks it’s Tony’s misguided way of bribing affection for his job offer (she’s thankful it isn’t along the line of the absurdly large bunny Pepper once received) – another part of her pathetically wonders if it’s Steve. 

It’s neither.

The note is from Alexander Pierce, saying he was delivering on what he promised. When she opens the package, she finds an encrypted drive – information on Project Insight. 

Hours later, she has reams of information in front of her, and they’re all making her frown. She knows Alex had given her access to these files in order to win her over, a persuasive ally to whisper into Steve’s ear – but she can’t imagine he knew what he was doing. Project Insight may have presented itself as a hopeful operation initiated in direct response to the growing need for national security, but it’s overreach and ambitious is sickening. 

For all her issues with Steve lately, for once she’s in complete agreement about something. This is a project that cannot go forward. 

She hesitates, then picks up her cell phone. The phone is ringing before she can have the chance to change her mind. Steve picks up immediately on the second ring, his voice coming on to greet her in soft and surprised _hello_.

“Hello,” she returns, managing a steady voice. “I need you to confirm this is a secure line.”

After a long moment of silence has stretched out, he confirms, “It’s secure.” There’s a pause. “I wasn’t expecting your call.”

“I imagine.” Silence again. Neither of them knows what to say, so Peggy decides to come right out and say it. “Look, Steve, I called because I received the files on Project Insight.”

“What?” Steve sounds shocked. “How?”

“Alexander Pierce sent them to me.”

There’s a stunned pause. “Why?”

“I can only imagine he wanted me to persuade you into his way of thinking, but he greatly miscalculated. I know you said you had the project mothballed, but I need further assurances. Please tell me no part of this ghastly project has actually been put into effect.”

“I wish I could, Peggy. He had authority to begin a pilot program. It was… successful, for its objective.”

Peggy pales. “How large of a pilot project was it?”

She hears Steve sigh. “All of New York City.”

“Steve!”

“I know, I know,” he says, sounding exhausted. “I fought it tooth and nail the entire time, but some things even my hands are tied. The Council wanted a large sample size, and there’s no city more densely populated in the US than New York City. Now, thanks to Pierce’s little pet project, we’ve got a database full of every New York citizen’s predilections, bank account information, voting habits, social media presence – an algorithm that predicts their threat level.”

“My god, Steve.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sounds tired, and belatedly she realizes she forgot to account for the time difference. She called him very late in the night, too late for him to be still working – but he sounded wide awake when he answered. “Pierce gave you access to data at the highest classification. None of the other Avengers have this information, Peg. You can’t say anything.”

“I know.”

There's another pause. “Have you spoken to Tony lately?”

She scrubs a hand through her hair. “Am I supposed to think you don’t already know the answer to that? You’re the head of an espionage organization.”

“I was trying to be polite.”

“You were trying to avoid admitting you’re having me followed, or Tony. Probably both.”

Silence. Which is its own admission, of course.

“Bloody hell, Steve. You have to realize what you’re doing?”

“I do,” he admits, painfully. “But I’d rather make sure you’re safe, even if you hate me for it.”

“Funny, because I think Alex would say the same thing about Project Insight.”

It’s a low blow, and they both know it. 

His voice comes back a little frustrated, “Since when did you start calling him Alex?”

She exhales harshly. “Just what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Peggy can hear him take in a reigning breath. “Nothing, nothing.”

“No, say it,” she demands. “If you’re going to have the nerve to imply it, then have the fortitude to come out with it."

“You _like_ him.”

There. The admission – no, the _indictment_. Despite herself, despite her anger, she can’t find the words. She doesn’t owe him any answers or explanations, but that doesn’t stop the thread of guilt churning in her chest. There had been a moment, just one, where she shared an attraction with Alex. It caught her so off-guard she hadn’t known what to do with it. For the longest time, Steve was the only one that could evoke such a reaction out of her, and she is well aware of how she would feel if Steve had felt that way about anyone other than her.

“It was just a dance,” she tells Steve, then flinches, realizing she couldn’t have chosen a worse response.

“Right.” He doesn’t sound angry. He just sounds… miserable. Lonely. “Just a dance.”

#

The following week, the news of Bucky’s escape quickly reaches her immediately after it happens. She doesn’t get the full details, only sketches that outline a violent escape through three sub-levels of Shield’s top supermax facility, a dozen wounded, mercifully zero dead. It’s the last part that surprises Peggy. 

“He was using restraint,” Peggy comments, over the phone.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Natasha replies, tartly. “It’s a mess. There’s gonna be fall out.”

“Did the news get a hold of this?”

“No, but higher-ups did. They’re convening the World Security Council to expedite the vote.”

Peggy quickly realizes the horror. The World Security Council will view this as a blunder on Steve’s part, blinded by his old affiliations. If Alexander Pierce is half as politically savvy as his reputation implies, the open seat has tipped heavily in his favor. 

“You coming in?” Natasha asks. “With Barnes back in play, we’ve got two Winter Soldiers out there. I don’t have to remind you how hard it was to stop the other three. We could use you back here, Cap.”

“Is this you asking, or him?”

Peggy knows she doesn’t need to clarify which _him_ she’s referring to.

“I didn’t get a direct order to have this call, if that’s what you mean. But you know he wants you here.”

She takes a breath, debating. Natasha is right about one thing. If there are two Winter Soldiers out there, that is plenty of reasons to be concerned. They need the team at full strength, but they’re already crippled by capacity with Tony in self-exile. She doubts he’s going to sit this one out. If he gets to Bucky before anyone else…

“Yes,” Peggy says heavily, closing her eyes, willing composure at the thought of seeing Steve again. “I’m coming in.”

“I’ll meet you at the airport. Keep off radar, use one of your off-the-books aliases. I’d come get you on the quinjet, but I’m a little busy dealing with six different emergencies.”

“I don’t need an escort,” Peggy replies, confused.

“Trust me, I’ll explain when you get here.”

#

She takes the next flight to DC within hours, and she marches out the airport with quick and efficient strides when she spots Natasha.

“Rough night?” Peggy offers, as soon as she sees the state that Natasha is in. Although she looks put together, Peggy can spot the wrap of bandages over her left forearm and the way Natasha is holding herself stiffly. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Natasha replies, quickly. “We had to park the SUV in the garage to avoid suspicion. Act natural when you get inside.”

Peggy’s instinct is to raise an eyebrow, as she hadn’t known she was acting anything but normal. It’s clear that Natasha has something specific in mind, though, as she leads Peggy down to the elevator where she hits the button for the parking lot. In the lift, Natasha hits her ear-comm and reports Peggy’s pending arrival. Peggy remains quiet, just waiting. The delay in explanation almost requires more patience than she has in reserves.

When they make it to the parking structure, the place is mostly silent except for the sound of a running engine. A large SUV shortly pulls up in front of them, and Natasha opens the door for her. Peggy climbs in, fully expecting Steve inside – which she does find, sitting in one of the two benches facing each other. 

She’s just shocked to find Bucky sitting on the other one. 

“It’s all right,” Bucky says, when Peggy automatically reaches for a weapon (remembering belatedly she’d checked it in her bag). “I’m me, Peg. It’s Bucky.”

“We need to get a move on,” Natasha urges in a whisper.

“It’s all right,” Steve assures, holding out a hand to help Peggy climb in. “He’s with us now.”

Peggy takes his hand and allows herself to be pulled into the SUV, all the while staring at Bucky. She moves into the vacant spot next to Steve, staring across the expense at Bucky with a healthy reserve of distrust. Natasha joins him on the bench, not particularly anxious with being in such close proximity to a man that had almost successfully killed her on at least two separate occasions. For a man that escaped the facility hours ago, Bucky hadn’t managed to get very far. Obviously, this had been a planned breakout. Steve, she’s unsurprised by. It’s the presence of Natasha – and Maria, driving the SUV – that’s remarkable.

“Helmet back on, Barnes,” Maria says, from up front.

Peggy watches silently as Bucky dutifully pulls on a riot gear helmet, one with a dark face shield that prevents anyone from seeing his face. She realizes he looks like a standard armed guard escorting the Director of Shield and two other Avengers during a high-risk condition alert. Already, Peggy has figured out enough. It’s clear that the weeks and months that Bucky had spent in Steve’s custody had done a significant amount to undo his mental programming – but Peggy suspects it couldn’t have undone everything. Not quite. She keeps on guard. It’s clear this had been something building in motion for a while, if both Natasha and Maria are involved. 

When they’re speeding down the road, Peggy finally takes her eyes off Bucky long enough to notice the bloodstain seeping through Steve’s jacket. “You’re hurt,” Peggy says, hands immediately moving to raise the jacket away from him, to find a bullet wound on his abdomen. Steve lets her examine him, clearly holding back a wince, and her eyes fly up to meet his. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Steve assures her. “Just a graze.”

Just a graze to him would have been life-threatening to any other person alive without their regeneration. She presses her hand against the wound, concerned, making sure the bleeding has stemmed.

“The bullet is still inside,” Bucky says.

She looks over to him, unable to voice the concern that he had been the one to put it there.

“It was the other remaining Winter Soldier,” Bucky answers, knowingly, without offense. “Josef, the worst of them. He’ll be back. At this point, he’s already reported to his superiors of the failed mission objective.”

_Killing Steve._

Something of her concern must show, because Steve presses a hand over hers in comfort, as if to remind her he was safe. 

“Shield has been compromised,” Natasha informs.

“By who?” Peggy asks. “By what?”

“Alexander Pierce,” Bucky answers knowingly, staring at her. “Hydra.”

#

Fury is waiting at the safehouse, along with – to her disbelief – her niece and nephew, Sharon and Carl. She shouldn’t be surprised, not after everything she’d just learned about HYDRA’s infiltration into Shield, even knowing Steve would only select people that he could depend on with his very life; she just hates the fact that her blood-relatives have been drawn into this. Sharon is at least a Shield agent, but Carl is a civilian doctor. He has no place in this.

“The emergency meeting with the World Council just happened,” Sharon announces, getting off the phone. “Alexander Pierce was just appointed the new seat.”

Everyone looks to Steve, but he doesn’t react visibly, nodding his head as if he’d been expecting the news. 

“That man declined the Nobel Peace Prize,” Fury says, wearily. “He said peace wasn't an achievement. It was a responsibility. See, it's stuff like this that gives me trust issues.”

Steve says, “They’ll start construction on the Helicarriers as soon as he gets approval on the funding. We have to stop the launch of Project Insight. That’ll be his number one priority.”

“No,” Bucky answers soberly. “His immediate priority will be killing you. He’ll be subtle about it, but he knows you’re the biggest obstacle to his power.”

Peggy stares at Bucky, still unsure of what to make of him. She hasn’t caught a glimpse yet of the old Bucky, smirking and droll, a man with too much charm for his own good. But she remembers all too clearly the Winter Soldier, and Peggy doesn’t know what to do with that. The official reports all specified Bucky as a non-cooperative and hostile prisoner during his captivity. Clearly, that had been for the benefit of Pierce and his Hydra spies, but Peggy can’t help but feel the flicker of resentment that she’d been kept in the dark as well. She tries her best to ignore that sting.

“We need somebody on the inside,” Natasha announces. “Somebody who can get close to Pierce.”

It takes a second for Peggy to realize there are eyes on her. Peggy feels confusion for a beat, then offense. “What? No. I’m Steve’s soulbond. I’m the last person he’d want close.”

“That isn’t exactly true,” Natasha replies, knowingly. “We’ve been keeping tabs on him, and he’s mentioned his interest in you more than once in private conversations.”

She realizes the implications of that and tries not to let it show on her face, especially with Steve next to her. Whatever hints of attractions she’d felt toward Pierce has died a violent and sudden death by the discovery of his true colors. She’d taken him as a patriot, a true and bold leader of Shield – much like Steve. Instead, he was a perverted foil.

“And your fallout with Steve isn’t exactly a well-kept secret,” Maria offers helpfully, from the back. “It’s not the easiest sell, but it won’t be the worst either.”

If Pierce did have any attraction towards Peggy, she is now positive it has more to do with some power play against Steve than any genuine liking. She realizes Pierce’s small overture to her while dancing now smacked of primitive alpha behavior, because he must have done it in full sight of Steve purposefully. He’d been trying to push Steve’s buttons, and then yet again, when he’d sent her the Project Insight files. He might as well have pissed all over her like some bloody dog marking territory. 

“He’d be naïve to trust me,” Peggy refutes. 

Alex doesn’t strike her as particularly naïve or particularly trusting.

“He doesn’t have to trust you,” Natasha replies. “You just have to get close. It’s the oldest trick in the spy game.”

Peggy doesn’t need to be told that. Long before she was Captain Britain, she’d been a spy. A female spy. Peggy knows exactly what they’re asking of her, and it isn’t anything she hadn’t done to a certain degree during the war. Using her feminine allure to make a mark give up secrets, intentionally or unintentionally, is indeed the oldest trick in the book.

She notices Steve’s conspicuous silence during the conversation and clenches her jaw, refusing to look at him. 

“This is why you wanted me to come in under the radar,” Peggy says, finally understanding. 

She had thought it was for her protection. It hadn’t been as simple as that, obviously.

“Look,” Fury says. “The fact is, without hard irrefutable proof that Alex is dirty, that he’s Hydra, we won’t be able to stop him from using his seat on the Council to do monumentally bad things. We don’t want that man having any more power than he already does.”

“Uncle Steve,” Carl says, poking his head into the room. “I’m ready to take a look at your injuries.”

“Not now,” Steve dismisses.

“Yes, now,” Peggy snaps, frostily, leveling him with an unsympathetic look. “Get that bullet taken out before your wound closes around it, Steve.”

She can tell Steve wants to argue, but he manages to show some semblance of self-preservation, closing his mouth. He rises and follows Carl out of the room.

“Look,” Maria says, tiredly, sounding awkward. “It’s been a long day. How about we reconvene in a while? Everyone, clean yourselves up. There’s food in the back, and fresh coffee, too. We’ll regroup later.” 

Peggy decides she has no interest in any of that. 

She just wants answers.

#

The medical room in the back is surprisingly well-stocked, and Peggy lingers by the door, watching as Steve strips off his shirt and settles back on the gurney. Carl works quickly, efficiently, cleaning the wound, extracting the bullet, and almost starts stitching it up again before Steve stops him.

“Now that the bullet is gone,” Steve tells him, “the wound will heal on its own.”

“Right,” Carl says, nodding, a little exasperated. “Never will get used to that.”

He finishes up cleaning and bandaging the wound, then strips off his bloodied gloves. He exchanges a look between Peggy and Steve, sensing the unspoken tension, and then quietly decides to excuse himself.

“Aunt Peggy,” he says as he leaves, a little cheekily – just a hint of Michael’s humor peeking through. “Nice seeing you again.”

She nods at him, appreciatively, but doesn’t say a word. She hadn’t said much of anything while waiting by the door, because she’d been quietly running through her options in this whole debacle of a mess. Hydra – infiltrating Shield. It’s not her absolute worst nightmare, but it’s definitely top three. She wonders how long Steve has known. It wouldn’t be the first secret he’s managed to successfully keep from her. 

She waits until the door clicks shut behind Carl before she turns back to Steve. She sees him reaching for his soiled shirt again, trying to shrug it back on, but Peggy stops him. She saw Sharon leave a spare set of clothes on the counter, and goes to retrieve it, unfolding a clean blue button-up shirt in his size. Peggy walks up to him, and Steve slides off the gurney, standing so that she can help him shrug it on. His movements are slow, still hitching with pain. The proximity to him does nothing to dissipate the tension in the room, nor the fact that Steve, despite his advancing age, still has a toned and attractive chest. 

A thought whispers cruelly in the back of her mind, a reminder of Cho’s words. _Physical intimacy with a soulbond after a traumatic event has been proven clinically helpful in the healing process._ A tight and low heat goes through her, but Peggy stubbornly stubs it out.

“How long have you known about Hydra’s infiltration?” she asks him.

Steve turns around, buttoning up his shirt, avoiding her eyes. “I’ve had my suspicions for almost a year now. Bucky just confirmed it. I had no idea about Pierce, though.”

She steps back. “And now you’re sending me out to be some whore for you.”

“Peggy,” he breathes out, sickened at the mere thought. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s exactly that,” Peggy warns, without raising her voice. Her tone is level, severely controlled. “It feels like the more secrets revealed, the more I realize I don’t know you at all.”

His jaw clenches, a vein jumping out in his neck. “You know me, Peg. You know me better than anyone. You have to know the idea of you around Pierce makes me want to rip things apart with my bare hands.”

“Right,” she returns, flatly. She clears her throat, stepping away again to lean back against the counter behind her, needing as much space from him as she can afford. She crosses her arms over her chest. Fighting about this won’t change a thing, and they have more pressing issues. “Who else have you brought in?”

“Just who you see here. I want to keep the circle tight.” There’s a pregnant pause, which Steve finally manages to fill with an awkward, if well-meaning, “How have you been, Peg? Really?”

She swallows thickly. “I was trying to sort things out, Steve. Haven’t managed to do that, yet.” 

Somehow, in some ways, she feels worse off than before. More confused, not less. Steve nods, understanding, and she hates him a little for being so understanding, as irrational as that is.

“I hate this,” she tells him, scrubbing a hand across the back of her neck. “I hate what we’ve become.”

Some of the vulnerability must bleed through their soulbond because he takes a bracing breath and does something he never usually does, a bold move for him. He reaches out for her, stepping right into her space. Peggy straightens, body immediately on high-alert, but he just keeps pressing closer until she’s staring up at his beautiful fucking face from inches away, close enough that she can feel the heat of him through his clothes, close enough that she can easily press a hand to his chest to feel the reckless beating of his heart.

“I hate it, too,” he admits in a hoarse whisper.

She stares at him. Before she can think, before she can talk herself out of it, she wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss. Her mind tries to play catch up with her actions but it’s almost impossible as his lips eagerly meet hers, latching on, opening her mouth with an eagerness and skill that no other man she ever kissed possessed. His tongue invades her mouth, taking over in that exact manner she always liked, the one that used to make her weak in the knees, used to make her daydream about him while staring at Steve over huddled maps of Germany and through cold nights out on the field. She remembers the smoldering knowing looks he used to give her in response.

Peggy moans and plants one hand against his chest, intending to push away to catch her breath and say something, but he grabs the back of her thighs instead, easily lifting her up, belying none of his injuries and all of his hidden strength, so that she can settle on the countertop. The change in the position affords him better access to her neck and jawline, spreading kisses everywhere, an explosion of lust spreading like brushfire.

She doesn’t know how long they keep at it like that, a ceaseless barrage of kisses and groping. Long enough, distracted enough, that she fails to realize they gain company at some point. Someone clears their throat, and Peggy’s eyes snap open to find Bucky over Steve’s shoulder, standing in the entryway.

Bucky looks entirely amused. “Seventy years, and you both still haven’t changed,” he says, shaking his head. It’s the first true sign she’d seen of Bucky – the _old_ Bucky, her friend. “We’re waiting for you guys outside, when you’re done in here. Try not to make a lot of noise. There’s serious business going on out there.”

He leaves before Peggy can manage a word, and against her, Steve’s uneven breathing stutters out over her collarbone, the scorching hot touch of his hands on her hips and back. Her clothes are rumpled, as are his. For a moment, she wonders if she hurt him, remembering his wound, but when she lifts his blue shirt and touches the bandages, it’s bone dry. The muscles on Steve’s stomach jump a little at her touch, and Steve’s fingers join hers, lifting up the peel of bandages to discover the wound completely healed, without a mark.

“Guess that research wasn’t bullshit,” Peggy mutters, laughing a little.

Steve returns it with a short laugh, but the energy in the air lingers, alit with promise over everything they didn’t finish. They don’t have time for this, though. They have too much at prepare for. He scrubs a hand through his hair, stepping back a little, fixing his shirt. She slides off the countertop, trying to get her clothes and hair in some state of presentable fashion. Her lipstick is smeared though, and she doesn’t have a tube to reapply. She manages as best as she can.

When they’re finally in some sensible state, Peggy stares across at Steve, at a loss for words. She starts to leave, when Steve’s hand jets out to stop her. 

“Let’s not—” he says, then falters. He sighs. “I don’t want us to just ignore what just happened.”

“Steve,” she begins, hesitantly. “I’m not sure what any of this—”

“I’m still in love with you,” he confesses, making her eyes fly up to meet his. “That’s never, for one goddamn second, let me rest. I’m tired of fighting it. If you still want something from me, _anything_ , all you have to do is let me know.”

He releases her, stepping back. 

Peggy isn't in the right state of mind to process the words. Slowly, she steps around him and leaves, escaping without a word.

#


	3. Chapter 3

#

Three weeks later, a funeral procession takes over ten city blocks and lands in the glass-stained Cathedral Church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in the Diocese of Washington D.C, a church so large you could lay the Washington Monument down on its side in the main hall. The production is a grand affair, and even if Peggy sits in the front row, dead center, she’s feels lost in a sea of people wearing black. The faces of _who’s who_ in Shield and politics show up, but it’s more than that. The President of the United States. International Heads of State. Two dozen and one senators and congressmen all clamoring for a spot. The procession is simulcast on multiple networks. 

The entire nation mourns the death of Steve Rogers, Captain America, a civil servant to the last. 

Peggy is handed the flag while her head is bowed, the church silent. Instead of a burial, there’s an urn with some ashes, a protocol in soulbonded funerals. She’ll carry it home tonight, these ashes of some man meant to be Steve. Peggy sits like a broken piece of glass glued carelessly together. The production of his funeral is elaborate, but it is nothing in comparison to the production that had been Steve’s assassination. _You can’t kill what’s already dead,_ Fury had recommended _. Tetrodotoxin B. Slows the pulse to one beat a minute. Banner developed it for stress. Didn't work so great for him, but we found a use for it._

The speeches are impressive, and thankfully no one expects Peggy to add to the growing display. The most heartfelt speech, however, is from Sharon, who despite being one of a handful of people that know the truth, perfects the grief-stricken but poised stance with such a great enactment that, under other circumstances, Peggy would have applauded. 

The funeral drags on, three hours of misery, three hours of condolences, three hours of tear-filled hugs and demure handshakes, three hours of playacting the grieving widow, and she’s managed to get through it.

But it isn’t until Tony steps up that Peggy realizes the toll of the lies. She braces herself with a viscous breath, mask falling over her face. “Peggy,” Tony comes up to her, and she feels _sick_. Tony has sunglasses in doors, which isn’t that odd for him, except that she’s fairly sure if she were to pull them down off the bridge of his nose, she’d discover red-rimmed eyes. She doesn’t say anything, for once not a fabricated act but a genuine response. For all his anger and resentment, the news of Steve’s death has clearly woken Tony up to some harsh truths, and she hates, _hates_ , hates her hand in this, despises that she has to deceive Tony to make everyone else buy the act. For his newborn realization that he didn’t actually hate Steve Rogers as much he thought he did, she also knows that once Tony learns the truth, he’ll have a whole new line of resentments lining up.

It’s all such a bloody mess.

Tony takes her silence for what it is, moving away to stand beside Pepper. (Pepper had phoned Peggy the night before, conveying condolences along with a heartfelt sob. In the end Peggy had been glad to be the one consoling Pepper, rather than the farce of the other way around.) Peggy catches an acknowledging nod from Natasha on the other end, and across the crowded hall, Maria and Fury stare at her intently. 

Peggy takes another deep breath, and then a shadow falls over her.

“I’m so sorry,” Alexander Pierce says, holding her hand between his, the concern so subtle and perfect. Peggy wants to _punch_ him in his goddamn treacherous face until he’s gasping his last breath. “If there’s anything I can do,” he says, “please don’t hesitate.”

“Thank you,” Peggy manages, softly, a tight nod.

She pulls her hand free, and he walks away.

#

She hasn’t seen Steve in weeks, and that’s by design. 

The rest of the day she feels eyes on her, but somewhere early into the evening, Peggy breaks free, using evasive maneuvers known only to seasoned spies, avoiding a tail as she drives out of town. It isn’t until nightfall that she makes her way to the safehouse. Inside, Bucky has himself sequestered around a table full of paperwork, looking over god knows what. She knows he is the only one here alongside Steve. A wanted assassin and a dead man. They must have so much to catch up on.

“Where is he?” Peggy asks, dispensing any greeting. She’s had enough banalities for one day – enough for a _lifetime_ in just this one day. “In the back?”

“No, his room,” Bucky answers flatly, with a frown.

Peggy spins on her heels, marching towards the line of small rooms in the front section of the bunker. She feels wound-up, coiled tight with tension. The day has taken a toll on her, and she isn’t precisely sure what she’s doing here; the plan had been to avoid any contact with Steve for at least another month.

But she can’t do that, after today.

His room is the second door to the last, and she opens it without knocking, finding Steve reclined in bed with a book open and a soft lamplight at his side. Steve turns at the noise, opens his mouth to greet her in surprise – but Peggy just reaches across, gathers a fistful of his shirt and drags him towards her, capturing his lips in a kiss filled with frantic need. He grunts in surprise. She scrambles on top of him, shoving the book aside, the sharp flare of something a little too much like _grief_ overwhelming her, making Peggy feel reckless. 

She does that thing he likes, biting his lower lip, and Steve groans again, hunger overshadowing disorientation. If he’s bewildered about her aggressive advances after weeks of avoidance and an unrequited declaration, he doesn’t show it. He threads a hand through her hair, his grip soft and assured in a clash against her reckless desire, but at the same time he’s matching her kiss for kiss. They haven’t done anything like this since that one interrupted moment in the medical bay, and Peggy knows she’s the reason why. They have too much baggage to sort out, too much heavy weight hanging between them to pretend it’s as simple and clean as it used to be.

But none of that matters to Peggy – not after today. 

She’ll be damned if she becomes his widow without remembering again what it feels like to have him inside her.

Steve slows her wandering hands when she desperately starts to unbuckle his trousers, stilling her shaking hands, whispering soft meaningless nothings into her ear, trying to sooth her. It’s at this point that she realizes she has tears trailing down her face, that she’s been _crying_. But she doesn’t want his gentle comfort. She doesn’t want him to hold her while she cries. 

She catches her breath, feeling dizzy, propped up weakly over him like a broken doll. “Please, Steve,” she exhales in a strained whisper. 

He stares up at her, and his hand is on her waist now and she’s fully straddling him across his lap. She’s well aware of the situation quickly forming beneath her. She can feel his hardness, but this isn’t about a matter of desire. It’s about a matter of being on the same wavelength, the same precipice point in their relationship. She just wants to keep touching him, and she never wants to stop.

He puts a hand on her cheek, bringing her unfocused eyes to meet his. “Tell me what you need.”

Peggy kisses him again, because she needs to silence the voices in her head, and he kisses her back – but this time, he sets the tempo far slower, not quite as frantic, but the emotions behind it almost make her feel like drowning, like she’s sinking into a bottomless ocean as everything around her is swallowing her whole. His hand touches her jaw lightly, his touch gentle. It’s her turn to break the kiss, breathing brokenly over him, trying to quell the flood of emotions over the soulbond. She can feel his love pouring through like a tidal wave.

“I’m right here,” Steve says, softly. “I’m not going anywhere, Peg.”

She feels compelled to explain, somehow. “Your funeral—”

“I know.”

“It was—”

“Peg, I know,” Steve stops her, gently. “I’ve been there. With the condolences and the sympathies and the sea of people all around you, feeling utterly alone. _I’ve been there_.”

It takes her a moment to realize what he means. _Her funeral_. All those decades ago when she first went into the icy waters. Except hers hadn’t been some ploy. Hers, for all Steve had known, had been real, the only inkling that she was somehow still alive the vague damning feeling through their soulbond. But all proof, all sense, everyone around him told Steve that she was gone. Philips finally declared her KIA a year after her disappearance, and there had been no comfort waiting for Steve in the shadows afterwards, not like what Steve is doing now for her. 

Her heart shatters with the thought. She wants the specter of any funerals to be a distant and forgotten memory. She wants neither of them to live through something like that again. They’ve wasted decades already, and she’s done wasting anything more.

He pulls her gently against him, and she whimpers. They’re wearing too many clothes, Peggy decides. She draws away to tug at the hemline of the black dress that she now abhors, that she’ll forever associate with being at his funeral, and Steve briskly assists her, urging the material up and off to expose her skin. He only watches intently as she fumbles with her bra, and apparently, he has to squeeze his eyes shut and exhale harshly when she removes the material. She pushes her panties down over her slim hips and slithers out of them, all the while shimmying on top of him, perhaps with more shifting than strictly necessary.

When he stares up at her nude, her chest feels inexplicably tight because he’s dragging in air while he’s looking at her, and she feels so vulnerable, but so beautiful too, just because of the _way_ he looks at her. Like he’d forgotten what she looked like, underneath all her armor, or like he never imagined he’d see her like this again. She kept her hair in a no-nonsense ponytail for the funeral, sleek and simple, but now Peggy reaches back, pulling her ponytail free, shaking her head to send locks of brunette hair falling loose around her face. Steve groans deep in his throat, and she feels pleased.

“Your turn,” she instructs, huskily.

His eyes dim with hesitation, though.

“What is it?” she asks.

“Peggy.” He swallows thickly. “You’re still the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen, but I’m not… I’m not the man you remember.”

Her heart aches for him, because she knows this part of him, this part so vulnerable and embarrassed of his age, is somehow a mirror image to the same small Steve that existed when they first met. Self-conscious, ashamed, like he had anything at all to worry about when it came to her attraction and attention. 

She decides to let her actions speak more loudly than any words, reassuring him with a gentle smile and a kiss. She reaches for his shirt, a vibrant blue well-pressed number with the sleeves carefully cuffed to the elbow. She tugs the shirt free from his trousers, higher up his stomach, exposing a toned abdomen and chest that makes an ache grow low in her body. It’s not the same chiseled body as it was before, but her desire for Steve hasn’t lessened one bit. His body still cleaves to muscle, just a drop less mass in his shoulders and chest than before. His body hair has turned silver, too, a thin runway patch that tracks down his bellybutton to disappear underneath his trousers.

“You have _nothing_ to be self-conscious about, darling.”

“But I’m not the man you used to—” He breaks off when she leans over and licks one long sinewy line across his stomach with her tongue. She pays special attention to the thin patch of coarse hair just below his belly button, stained grey, and Peggy swallows thickly, and drags her mouth hot and wet against his navel, listening to him groan. “Okay,” he breathes heavily, “that’s cheating.”

She starts to kiss her way south, trying to free him from his clothes, drunk in anticipation of fully taking him into her mouth.

“Wait, wait,” he stops her. “Lie down,” he urges, sliding over in bed.

A part of Peggy wonders if this is just another stall tactic to avoid undressing, but his hungry look quells the thought. She slides onto the side, laying out, and he makes more room for her until they’ve switched places, with her lying underneath him. He obligingly strips off his shirt, earning an appreciative grin from Peggy, which he clearly sees because he does an amused shake of his head, like he can’t believe her, but is still surreptitiously pleased with her assessment. 

But then he tugs her leg firmly, yanking her lower, earning a surprised grunt from her. He shifts down the bed, his intentions clear as he settles between her legs. “I’ve been dreaming about this nonstop since that night at the party. You never let me return the favor.”

 _Oh_. Peggy’s entire body flushes.

He bites at her inner thigh, and Peggy’s entire body stiffens, moaning a little as he does it again. Her hand tightens through his greying hair as he presses kisses along her thigh, her belly, then lower. The first brush of a tongue across her drags out a cry, and he pauses, grinning, long enough to tell her he _loves that sound_ , loves making her gasp and whimper. She’s about to tell him off for teasing when he goes back down and redoubles his efforts, mouthing her clit while the soft pad of his tongue runs over once, twice, before he latches on with force. Peggy gasps so loudly her whole body bucks up, and she pushes her head back into his pillow, swallowing moans as he continues to suck her off.

It shouldn’t take her long, because she’s been waiting for this for so long, not as long as he has, but too goddamn long. But when he takes her to the precipice of the edge, so close to an orgasm that Peggy can taste it, he backs off at the last second, soothing her back down while she whimpers and groans in frustration. Steve starts working her up again when she’s had a moment to catch her breath, and maybe this is some form of payback for the party, some measure of turnabout being fair play, but she is done with being teased. She wants release, and her writhing causes the bedpost to thud against the wall – and then finally, _finally_ , he gives it to her, drawing her release out over several long staggering seconds until she feels like she’s crashing.

“I’ve thought about that more times than you can count,” she hears his self-satisfied voice. She exhales heavily, feeling boneless and loose. She drags one arm over her eyes, the back of her wrist resting on the bridge of her nose, because she knows Steve is watching her, eyes scanning the length of her body. “A very long, long lifetime of fantasies just like that. Every scenario, every position.”

She groans.

“Would you like me to tell you my favorite position to fantasize about?” he whispers, kissing her thighs again, kissing his way up her body. “I’m a fan of the classics. You, on top. Never gets old.”

They reach for each other at the same time, and she finally gets his belt unbuckled in between heady kisses. They work together to strip him free of any stitch of clothing, and she has no idea how he manages even a modicum of self-consciousness while looking twice as better than men half his age, but Steve has always been modest about his looks. Too modest to realize the truth. Peggy plans on disabusing him of such humility, plans on being absolutely _horrible_ for any checks to his ego. She strokes him in her hand while pressing kisses all across his chest and neck. Eventually, she sets her hands on his shoulders, pushing him back. 

“Like this?” she asks keenly, as he complies with her demands, laying back down on the mattress.

Steve nods, swallowing thickly, and she follows him down, straddling him again. She feels the jolt in her body when he starts touching her again, rubbing slow, gentle little circles at her clit until she's inhaling sharp, audible breaths. He places a broad fingertip against her and rocks it lightly. His other hand traces over her breasts, playing with the curves and the valleys with light touches and then a firm hold.

She braces her hands on either side of his head and leans down, capturing his lips. Moments later when she finally sinks down onto him, she does it slowly, deliberately, measuring it out to extend the penetration as long as possible until their hips met. She stops for a moment, resting there while her body remembers exactly how he fits.

When she pulls up and lowers back down, the rhythm is yet another thing she hadn't been expecting tonight; it’s entirely too slow, _too slow_ , but somehow it feels too much even as the flavor of it overwhelms her with its potency. She rocks her hips against his and Steve’s breath hitches, breaking off. 

Steve pushes upright, craning his head, using his teeth to tease her ear. She whimpers, but then he’s covering her mouth too, placing delirious kisses all over her. She sets the pace slow, a sheen of sweat already breaking out over her skin. Despite the slow pace, the wave of pleasure rises. Their movements cause the bedpost to thud lightly against the walls as they shift, and though she wants to see Steve come while he’s inside her, jaw falling open as the pleasure crests, Peggy realizes her own appetite might win first. 

Her hand braces against the bedpost, needing to steady herself for the rhythm. Peggy watches silently as Steve presses his head back into the pillows, muscles flexing in his neck. His eyes screw shut, and she can tell by the way his hands curl white knuckled around her hips, no doubt bruising, that he’s getting closer and closer to the end. She hopes he'll get there first, but the stroke of him against her is long and potent, and already she can feel another peak coming. 

Thankfully, Steve gets there first, but barely. 

By the time she’s peaking and coming back down from her high, the metal bedpost has dents outlining her handprint. As her breathing gets under control, Steve pulls her down, maneuvering her so that she curls up against his naked, blessedly sweat-soaked skin. Their legs intertwine with each other, and he circles a possessive arm across her stomach and draws her flush to his chest. He kisses her shoulder.

She opens her mouth to say something, but the words don’t come out. Her throat closes off with the thought of sprouting words when actions have just spoken for them so well.

“I know,” Steve whispers, eyes full of awareness. “I know, Peggy. Me, too.”

#

She takes her birth control pill the next morning. She’s been taking it for two years now, but this is the first time it’s actually been needed.

Peggy is the bait, but they have to wait a sensible amount of time before hooking it, as Alexander Pierce isn’t a man stupid enough to believe Peggy would be interested in him within a week of Steve’s funeral. In the meantime, she is without purpose – or even, precisely, a job. With Steve officially dead and the world reporting the soulbond severed, her duties as Captain Britain are officially on halt because the world thinks her bereft of her superhuman powers now.

Fury makes up some reason for her absence, some cover story that has to do with visiting distant family overseas. Sharon takes the week off as part of the cover, catching a flight to England. Natasha and Maria continue on as normal. 

So, Peggy has a week at the bunker.

“Jesus Christ, my room is right next door,” Bucky complains after the second day. “I had to sleep in the medical bay.”

“Apologies,” Peggy manages, probably not sounding apologetic at all. She’s famished, and all she can find in the kitchen are stale bagels. “Do you have any earplugs?”

“Did you two even sleep?” Bucky adds on, incredulous. “It was _all night long_.”

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve says, severely, a little red-faced. “Message received.”

#

The next night, though, it’s Bucky that wakes them up.

She startles awake and automatically looks towards Steve. He is the first to recognize what’s happening, while Peggy is instinctively reaching for a weapon. But apparently this has happened enough times that Steve immediately knows to grab some restraints before making his way to Bucky’s room. By the time she’s inside, Bucky is rampaging against the room like a violent mad man. There are dents in the wall, all metal-fist sized. Steve halts her with a raised hand, warning her to stay back and go no further than the entrance. Peggy stops, still standing near enough that she can spring into action, if needs be.

Bucky paces several long minutes, working himself up and then slowly calming himself down. Except it isn’t so much calming down as it is collapsing in exhaustion. He curls into a tight ball, tucking himself away into a tight corner, with Steve and Peggy both standing at opposite ends of the room, three points in a triangle.

#

Peggy goes about making breakfast just to keep herself preoccupied. In some ways, watching his emotions, the horror and wretchedness and anger, is more than just sobering. It grounds her own feelings. She knows the files they pulled from the Siberian mainframe helped start the long arduous process of reverse trigger-word programming. She knows that, at first, it was Natasha working through the process with Bucky while he was held prisoner, but since then it’s been Steve. She knows, as much as anyone knows, that Bucky’s chances of full rehabilitation are slim to none, but that doesn’t stop the attempt.

Bucky slides onto the kitchen stool silently, awkwardly. 

She slides the food in front him, matter-of-factly.

They eat in companionable silence for a long while. She has no idea what Steve is doing – maybe cleaning up Bucky’s mess, maybe taking a moment to himself, maybe giving _them_ a moment.

“If it comes to it,” Bucky says, the only break in the hush, “if it needs doing, you’ll put me down, right?”

Peggy clenches her jaw. “You’ve been spending far too much time with Steve. There’s no need to be so dramatic. It won’t come to that.”

“But if it does, Steve won’t do it. I need to make sure I don’t hurt anyone else, Peg.”

“So then don’t,” she replies. “But I’m not putting you down like an old dog.”

“Since when have you gone so soft?”

“First, let’s make it clear that I am not nor will I ever be soft, and if I was, you’d do well to avoid calling me it. And second, after our respective histories, after what Steve has suffered alone these last seventy years, maybe there’s something to be said about old dogs learning new tricks. We are it, Bucky. We are all that remains, and it’s a damn miracle that we’re still left standing.”

Bucky snorts, disdainfully. “I wouldn’t call it a miracle.”

Peggy presses her lips into a thin line. “Steve would.”

#

“Fury is settling into the Director seat quickly,” Peggy comments.

Steve nods, a hand flung over the back of the sofa, resting gently behind her. “It’s been his for the taking for years. He’s been running the thing from the shadows for so long, I think he almost preferred it that way.”

“Once my week of mourning is up,” Peggy treads carefully, too many thorns on all sides. “You realize I won’t be able to come back here anymore? It’ll be too risky.”

It’s already too risky, but they have their best resources covering Peggy for just this week. Just one week. It feels abysmally little given everything she had been through recently with Steve. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve tells her, kissing the back of her hand. 

His hand returns to her back after a long moment, a warm, steady, hypnotic weight moving slowly over her shoulders and back. She leans in.

“You better not,” she tells him.

#

Their brainstorming sessions are often either too crowded or too aimless. Despite the fact that Peggy is the one that has to _insinuate_ herself in Pierce’s life (a too-polite word), Natasha is really the MVP of their outfit, given that she has the most experience in this type of operation. So, Peggy takes the advice, the pointers, as it were. _He’ll expect a challenge,_ Natasha says. _Why else would he go after a soulbonded woman? Give him a touch and then withdraw. He’ll love the chase. He wants the conquest._

Afterwards, they join the boys, bouncing ideas off each other about Project Insight, testing theories of infiltration, poking holes until they come up with a plan that hopefully won’t get them all killed. It’s a long con. Obviously the first step is to figure out who to trust and who to keep in the dark.

Peggy’s arguments fall on deaf ears. 

“Tony’s too emotional about us right now,” Steve says. “Too angry.”

“You didn’t see him at your funeral,” Peggy insists. “We could use a man of his talents on our side.”

“It’s a bad idea,” Steve insists.

Natasha flashes a look sideways at Peggy. “I agree. He’s too emotionally compromised.”

Bucky doesn’t say a word the entire time, too silent, too stoic.

#

“No,” Bucky says, and Peggy doesn’t need to be a shrink to accurately note the suppressed fear on his face. “I’m still not in control of myself. It’s too risky.”

“It’s just a thought,” Peggy says, stretching her muscles, taking her position opposite him, feet planted on the gym mats in the back room. She’s aware that Steve is standing behind them both, arms crossed over his chest, a frown etched firmly on his face. He doesn’t say anything. “But you have to gain control,” she says, “and there’s no way to do that other than to test your limits. I can handle myself—”

“I can still hurt you,” Bucky interjects.

Peggy nods. “Better you try it out on me than out there, in the real world, against civilians. Very shortly, you will be out there fighting for us when not even a few months ago you had no autonomy whatsoever. Ideally, we would take your reemergence slow, but we do not have the luxury of ideals. We need to know you can control yourself in a fight.” 

“Yeah, but—” When she looks back up, Bucky seems to be almost holding his breath, and he’s close enough that Peggy can see the vein in his neck pulsing with tension, his instinctual desire to avoid physical conflict when he barely has any hold over his mental ones. “You’ll have to stop me, if I can’t stop myself.”

She nods. “We’ll go slow, at first,” she assures.

He stands opposite her, a few deep breaths to prepare himself for the sparring session. When Peggy waves him forward with an open palm, he advances.

#

They don’t go slow for long, but Bucky doesn’t try to kill her. 

She counts it as a win.

#

“I'm just saying,” Steve says, doing a truly abysmal job of hiding his agitation, “I’m not completely useless. I could help with crossing off some of the Hydra spies.”

“Yes,” Peggy says, “Except that you’re supposed to be dead.”

“I know how to be covert.”

“Do you?” Peggy replies, genuinely skeptical. “When you were Captain America, you were always the obvious threat in the room. When you stopped being Captain America, you became an even _bigger_ threat as the head of an international espionage organization. I don’t think you can do inconspicuous even if your life depended on it.”

“I can manage obscurity,” Steve protests. “I can—”

“Wear some glasses? Put on a baseball cap? Your funeral was viewed by millions. It trended on _Youtube_. I’ve seen more of your face recently on the media than during the entirety of World War II.”

“If something goes wrong--”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Peggy says briskly, but the unhappy pinch to Steve’s mouth has her adding, in a gentler tone, “Steve, you’ve surrounded yourself with people you trust with your life. Now it’s simply time to prove that conviction. We will be able to do this. You just have to trust us to do our jobs.”

“I know,” Steve says, tiredly, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“No one said you had to, darling.”

#

The bunker has its own digital library and full satellite cable, mainly for reconnaissance and monitoring of the news, but it’s also why Peggy walks in on a surprising sight the following Tuesday night.

“Wait, what?” Bucky asks, incredulous. At Steve’s raised eyebrows, Bucky shakes his head. “How does this not traumatize kids? The entire story is about toys feeling neglected and forgotten because they don’t play with them.”

“It’s a Disney movie,” Steve replies. “There’s always some undercurrent of loss in all their movies. This one is more, I guess, a figurative loss of childhood.”

“And this is a kid’s movie?” Bucky asks again, incredulous.

“You should watch _Wall-E_ ,” Peggy says, joining the conversation. “Now there’s a story that feels depressingly ominous about the future, and still manages to make you laugh.”

Steve shakes his head. “I prefer _Toy Story_ any day of the week.”

“Of course,” Peggy returns, then pivots towards Bucky. “Did you know, they modeled the main character of _The Incredibles_ after Steve? Made him interview and everything about it.”

“What?” Bucky sputters, while Steve is already waiving a protesting hand, muttering, _no,_ _not really modeled after me_. “Okay, now we gotta watch that!”

And that’s how they wind up watching a collection of Pixar movies in one of the common areas late into the night, Peggy pulling out a few blankets from the back to spread around. It feels like a good selection, because Steve doesn’t have to spend the majority of the movies explaining references and the logic to Bucky or Peggy, both of whom manage to make out more than enough just from the context alone. Still, a child’s movie is still strangely comforting, even if Bucky incorrectly sides with Steve on the placement of _Toy Story_ as the best of the movies.

“I miss the animation of the old classics, though,” Steve asks, voice drowsy, because of course he would, the intrinsic artist.

“The old classics?” Bucky repeats, incredulous. “You mean _Snow White_? Jesus, you’re old.”

“You’re just as old as me, thank you. We saw that movie together when it was first released.”

“Maybe,” Bucky grumbles. “But you’ve always been an old man at heart, even when we were kids.”

#

“What do you want for dinner?” Peggy asks Steve through the bathroom door. 

There’s no immediate response. The shower is still running, but she knows Steve can hear her just the same. She moves to lounge in bed when Steve finishes his shower, glancing up to see the steam curl out of the now-open bathroom door ahead of Steve’s entrance. He emerges with a towel hung low on his hips. He’s drying his hair with another smaller towel, frowning as he says, “Maybe Indian? Or Chinese? What do you feel like eating?”

Peggy watches him, suddenly entirely too distracted to carry on their conversation. At first, he’s oblivious to her thoughts, still drying his hair, facing the other direction, going about his routine without the slightest inkling of the appealing image he presents. She continues to wait, allowing her mind to conjure up a heady little fantasy of forcing him to drop that towel, and the potency in the atmosphere and their soulbond finally encourages Steve to look back. 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Steve says, pink-stained with a blush.

“You seem to be handling me just fine.”

When she walks up to kiss him, he makes a low noise of gratification that vibrates in his chest, and she gently parts his lips with her tongue, letting each of them sink into the kiss. She's been thinking so much about kissing him, tasting him, feeling him, breathing him in, the _want_ of it makes her feel light-headed. 

But there’s something expanding underneath the bond, a hinted anxiety beneath the hunger. 

She pulls back, and he has a somber look on his face. “What is it?” she asks, concerned.

“I was just thinking,” he says, quietly, “after this is all over, after Hydra is weeded out, I don’t know if I want to return to Shield. If there’s even a Shield left standing. Captain America and any version of him has been laid to rest now. For once, for as long as I can remember, I’m not beholden to anything except what I want to be beholden to.” 

She smiles. “Only you would think of retirement after your funeral as some sort of revelatory concept.”

“I’m serious, Peg. I want to leave it all behind – Shield, the political hustle, the constant battles. I only want… _you_ , if you’ll have me. I only want a piece of that good life that everybody always told me about, that I never got to live myself.”

“That sounds…” she says, softly. “Perfect.”

“Yeah?” his eyes light up. 

“Yes,” she answers, kissing him.

She manages to tug his towel free after all. 

#

Every night, Peggy feels his fingers lightly combing through her hair, and she sighs, pulling herself closer to him. Now that they are here, now that she has him completely again, these moments mean more to her than the world. The warmth of his breath on her neck when she wakes up with his face pressed against it. The way his eyes shine with laughter when she teases him about his beard stubble. The line of his shoulders above her when he presses her back in the mattress. Even the low timbre of his voice when he says "morning," has her feeling ridiculously gratified. Peggy can’t get enough of it.

She wraps her arms around his waist, and Steve is warm and solid around her, his hands gentle as his fingers comb through her hair. Peggy falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, thudding faintly against her ear.

#

Her week of freedom runs past its expiration date. Reality reasserts itself, once again having returned to the mockery of being his widow in the public’s eyes. It feels like coming up after the ice all over again, a rude awakening that feels far too much like a silent scream that can’t move past her throat.

Peggy tries not to focus on it.

“So, this is goodbye for now,” she manages, tightly.

“Only for now,” he promises.

She wraps her hand around his briefly, kissing him once more for good measure, and forces herself to walk away.

#


	4. Chapter 4

#

Even after six months, Peggy has the misfortune of struggling in her daily routine. The new role within Shield, the constant looks of sympathy she receives, the loneliness she suffers at night, it feels too much at times, wringing out every ounce of her patience and fortitude like a wet sponge. She longs to revisit that one week of solitude with Steve in the bunker, a longing that feels like a physical ache at times. She’s only seen Steve a handful of times, always rushed, always coveted moments that last just as long as they can risk. Sometimes, a little longer.

It is still too little, too brief, but Peggy tries to reap from them everything that she can.

Nevertheless, Peggy knows she is being watched, just as she knows who is doing the watching. Alexander Pierce has been a shadow for some time, helping her adjust to her novel position as a high-level liaison between Shield and the World Council. Being downgraded from an Avenger had been a brutal move, but Peggy knew she couldn’t hide her superpowers well enough in the field. She needed to acclimate to the new set of circumstances, and the position was one that made sense, given her proficiencies and hard-tested connections. 

In the meantime, they’ve been digging deep into rumors and old Hydra files, trying to find out who is dirty and who needs to be eliminated from within Shield’s ranks. The initial stages of Project Insight have already begun, too, a horror-show that Pierce has fast-tracked through to production after he convinced the other Council Members into funding the costly venture. She hadn’t thought it would happen this fast, an enterprise of such measure and immensity, but already the sublevels of the Triskelion headquarters in D.C. are being gutted, cleaned out and set up as staging for the production of three advanced Helicarriers.

Fury has done his best to cripple the enterprise, already having dropped in a subtle worm into the programming, something that has gone unnoticed by Pierce because it lays dormant. Should the Helicarriers ever go online, the worm will act as a self-destruct measure, something that they hope to avoid because the casualties could be high if three Helicarriers were to suddenly self-implode in the air. Despite the grim prospect, everyone agrees there should only be a handful of people that could override the self-destruct feature. Two, mainly. Fury and Steve. The alternative chills Peggy to the bones, to think of what the Helicarriers could do in the hands of someone like Pierce.

Of course, to Pierce, she appears a willing if not eager accomplice. Peggy presents herself as an eager supporter of the project. “It needs to be done,” she tells him, on one occasion. “The public will not thank us for this, if they ever find out, but we are not here for their gratitude. We are here to protect them. Project Insight is a difficult means to a worthy end.”

Pierce smiles warmly at her. “I’m glad you saw reason on this. I had hoped to have you as an ally.”

He hasn’t done anything in all these six months. No moves. No overtures. Nothing beyond talking to her longer than necessary, smiling at her remarks more than she deserves. He is, at most times, both charming and respectful. But she feels his eyes on her when she turns, can sense a man’s attention even with her back to him.

To put a fine point on it, Peggy would rather just get on with it just to get it over. 

“Do you have plans for the weekend?” she asks, finally tired of the wait. She can hear Natasha’s voice in her head, chiding her to be patient, to let the mark to come to her, but it’s been months now and this needs to get a move on. “I have two tickets to the Opera. Bought ages ago, and I don’t know anyone else that has any interests.”

“Which one?”

“Wagner,” Peggy answers, and adds without a hint of irony, “ _Die Walkure_ , _The Valkyrie.”_

_The Ride of the Valkyries._

Alex smiles at her deadpan delivery. “I hear it’s a classic for a reason.”

“Good, then. It’ll be nice to see it with someone who’ll appreciate it. Sunday? Pick me up at six?”

#

“Plan for the break in for Sunday,” she tells Nat, later. “He’ll be out of his house until late in the evening. I’ll hand you off his keycard at intermission.”

The keycard is encrypted, and unbreakable. They won’t be able to steal into his house without it. 

“We’ll be quick,” Natasha tells her. “But we don’t know what type of security he has inside. We’ll search whatever we can find and put everything back in place. I’ll hand you back the keycard once everything is wrapped up. Should be well before the play is over.”

Peggy knows Natasha will be working with Bucky, but she doesn’t say anything. She wants to ask how Bucky is doing, how _Steve_ is doing, but that always leads her to distraction, and Peggy needs to remain focused. They’ve already searched Pierce’s office, to no avail. They’ve run the gambit on a number of secret facilities and potential Hydra bases. It’s led to depressingly little information. That isn’t to say they haven’t amassed a potential list of _who’s-who_ in the traitor business. Peggy is fairly sure that Rumlow is guilty as sin, and Sitwell has made the list too. There’s a handful of people on Peggy’s own staff that she’s fairly sure she can’t trust, which would, of course, make sense. Pierce would hardly let her in the building without people watching her.

Now it’s come to raiding Pierce’s personal home, and if this doesn’t turn up some sort of clue, some hint, or secret Hydra file, they’ll have to resort to truly desperate measures. Peggy prefers to avoid that, but the time for restraint has come and gone. 

“You ready for the date?” Natasha asks.

“Honestly, yes. I can handle Pierce.” Even if the prospect turns her stomach.

“Do you want me to,” Natasha begins, pausing for a beat, “do you want me to deliver any message to Rogers?”

Peggy pauses. He’ll know about the date, just as he knows about any sort of intel they gleam off Pierce. It would do her no good to spout assurances through a middleman. Steve would feel uncomfortable about the prospect of her on a date with another man, no matter what. The fact that it’s a covert operation, that it involves his former colleague, a traitor of the grandest kind, a man that Peggy admittedly felt an attraction for once upon a time – it’s all further complications. Peggy prefers not to focus on it. She has a job to do. It is as simple as that. 

(It really isn’t, but she should be forgiven the mantra, under the circumstances.)

“No need,” Peggy says. “This has been the plan since the beginning. He knows that.”

#

The next day, Peggy starts a 9am video conference to discuss Shield’s image problem with some bothersome PR firm. They’re dealing with the fallout of a recent botched mission that hit the news the prior day, and the firm’s answer is apparently having Captain Britain appear on _Sesame Street_. She is about to suggest, as kindly as one can manage to such an unappealing but innocuous prospect, that they find someone else to handle the appearance, when the entire meeting is waylaid by an unexpected visitor. Tony strolls through her doors at 9:15 and doesn’t falter when her secretary tries to stop him.

“I’m in the middle of a meeting, Tony,” Peggy tells him.

“Oh yes,” he says, waiving at her monitor, telling the men on screen, “Hello, we won’t be a minute.” He hits the mute button without waiting for a response. Tony takes the opportunity to slide a small wrapped box, a gift of some type, across the crimson sheet glass of her desk. “Happy Birthday, Peg.”

Her birthday isn’t for another three months.

“You’ve been ignoring me,” he says, when she merely raises an eyebrow at him.

On anyone else, this would sound like an accusation. On Tony, it’s an outright challenge to deny. Peggy does what she always does with Tony and bucks the expectations. 

“Yes,” she tells him. “I have.”

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with the admission. “Yes, well…” he flounders, then asks, pointblank, “why?”

Peggy sighs. “I don’t feel much like company lately.”

Tony nods. “And if I feel like not taking that as an answer anymore?”

“Your feelings are quite beside the point.”

“You’re telling me the world doesn’t cater to my whims? I’ll have you know that hasn’t been a lot of my experience.”

“I’m telling you _I_ don’t.” Peggy takes a breath and tries a gentler tone. “I know you mean well. I know the team does. But I’m not yet willing to forge ahead as if all is normal.”

Bruce, Clint, even Thor have reached out to Peggy, after Steve’s “death.” She’s thankful Natasha has managed to keep most of them in line, but Tony is – well, Tony. He’s back to working with the Avengers, relapsing into his old ways only a few weeks after Steve’s funeral. She knows he’s still harboring remorse for his last harsh words against Steve, but Tony has recently started routing that misguided remorse in Peggy’s direction. She can do without, however. Peggy is not willing to make a mockery of this widow ruse far more than it needs to be. She hates seeing commiseration on the faces of her closest friends. She’d rather avoid them than confront that. 

“Sometimes you gotta run before you can walk,” Tony says. “There’s still a spot on the team for you. Just because you can’t heal papercuts easily, doesn’t mean you can’t be an Avenger. Look at Clint. No one bats an eye at Robin Hood joining the God of Thunder on missions.”

“Tony—”

“It made sense at the beginning, but it’s been months, Peg, and you’re still here. Still doing paperwork like you have any interests in budgetary needs and managing operations from a cushy chair.”

“You don’t have the faintest idea what my interests are, Tony.” 

“I know it isn’t like you to give up,” he baits.

“I’m _not_ giving up,” Peggy tell him, bolting up from her chair. Even the accusation of that infuriates her, even when she knows it’s false. “Things are complicated now.”

“And how long are you going to use that excuse?”

She sets her lips into a thin line. “Are we done here, Tony? I still have a meeting to attend.”

“Look, I tried treating you with kitten gloves earlier, and it went nowhere—”

“Since when have you _ever_ —”

“So, here’s the direct approach,” Tony says. “The team needs you back.”

That stops Peggy in her tracks. She has no countermeasure for such a blatant appeal, no frosty retort to stall Tony’s words. The silence blooms between them for a beat, and Peggy realizes she has her fingers clenched tightly in fists. She relaxes them, takes a breath, and sits down again. She’s tempted to open the gift Tony brought along, simply to break the tension, but it’ll probably be another shameless bribe to bring her back into the Avenger’s fold.

“I’ll think about it,” she says, even as she knows she _can’t._ She shifts tracks. “But you could help in the meantime.”

“Help with what?” he asks, surprised.

Peggy unmutes the video. “Gentlemen, we have a solution to our problem. Iron Man has generously volunteered to appear on _Sesame Street_ in my stead. Isn’t that grand?”

#

Peggy usually likes the Opera. She likes the grandeur. She likes the costumes. She likes the stories they tell, and the classical music. She likes almost all of it, including using the occasion as an excuse to dress up. Tonight, she hates every last bit of it, especially the way she can see Pierce’s appreciation for her evening gown, a soft green number with blue details that falls off her shoulders. She’s even wearing the lovely delicate wristwatch that Tony had gifted her, refusing to think about how much he may have spent on the thing. (Of course, she had it run for bugs, because she wouldn’t put it past Tony to try and spy on her.) 

The opera itself is pleasant enough, but Peggy is too anxious to appreciate it because the play is almost over, and it’s been hours since she handed off the keycard to Natasha during intermission. There hasn’t been any word about its return. Something must have gone wrong. Natasha should have been back already. It had been easy enough to swipe Pierce’s wallet to obtain the keycard, but Peggy knows he’ll notice the absence soon enough when he returns home. 

She needs to drag out the date, make it last longer. 

After they leave the Kennedy Center, it’s a simple late dinner at a posh restaurant around the corner, capped off with desert for two at another local shop. She stretches it out as much as possible, but there still hasn’t been a glimpse of Natasha.

“Well, this has been an enjoyable night,” Peggy says, as they arrive at her flat. Ever the alleged gentlemen, Pierce escorts her right to her doorstep. “I had fun.”

“So did I,” Pierce replies. 

They stop before each other, and Peggy pretends the chilly night air has gotten to her, wrapping her arms tighter around her coat. “Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

That surprises Piece, but he doesn’t let the surprise bloom for long. He nods.

Before she can get her keys out, though, something settles deep in her lungs, a familiarity that blooms warmly in her chest; she would recognize it anywhere. _Steve._ He’s somewhere nearby, the fragrance of his presence soft and simmering to her touch as she blindly tracks him through the soulbond. She takes a steadying breath, forcing nothing to register on her face, pushing open the door to her apartment with a louder rattle than necessary. 

Inside, the place is dark and seemingly empty. Peggy knows better. After another few seconds of fruitlessly fighting the sensation, Peggy realizes she won’t be able to concentrate on anything Pierce is saying, or doing, not with Steve somewhere nearby for reasons passing comprehension. She tells Pierce to make himself at home, and quickly excuses herself to the second bathroom in the back, past the long corridor near her bedroom.

She knows she’s going to find Steve behind the bathroom door, but it’s still a shock to see him after all these months. Despite the circumstances, the sight of him isn’t unwelcomed.

“What are you doing here?” she demands in a harsh whisper.

Steve exhales, then hands her the keycard, not saying a word. His actions are stiff, his jaw clenched and rigid, and even if she couldn’t have read his churning emotions through the bond, his flat look alone would tell her that he’s doing everything he can to stay on task. He hates being here, hates being made to bear witness to this charade she has with Pierce. 

She takes the keycard, just looking at him. “What happened with Natasha and Buck?” 

His shoulders sag at the mention of them. “Josef, the other Winter Soldier. He’s dead now, but Bucky is in bad shape. You have to delay Pierce as long as possible so Nat can clean up the mess left behind at his place.”

That doesn’t bode well. “I have to—” Peggy begins, knowing she has to go back to Pierce, but she can’t force her legs to move. 

Steve takes a deep breath, nodding, understanding. “Go,” he urges, reluctantly.

With great difficulty, she forces herself to turn back around and leave. She finds Pierce in the living room, coat removed, the material draped over the back of her sofa. It’s easy enough to palm his jacket and move it to the closet, where she quickly finds his wallet and reinstalls the keycard to his rightful slot. 

The next few moments are spent playing hostess, while nerves and something a little too much like dread runs through her veins. She has no idea what Steve is still doing here, but she can feel his presence lingering; he hasn’t budged from his spot in the bathroom. And her panic only manifests the longer she talks with Pierce, the softer his words become in her cozy little apartment, because she knows Steve is overhearing all of this. She knows he’s tormenting himself with all of it.

When she affects a laugh at something Pierce says, Peggy has to conceal a flinch, drowning out the nauseating spike of jealousy through the bond with a deep swallow of her drink. Peggy wishes she could spare Steve this, but he’s making this entire mess nearly impossible. Why is he even still here? He should leave.

“I was surprised,” Pierce eventually says, stepping closer, “when you asked me to come tonight.”

Peggy smiles. “I try to avoid predictability,” she says, flirtatiously.

She can feel Steve’s bitter touch flash brightly. Whatever objective he had in coming here, it’s quickly being mired by emotions and petty jealously. She can feel a headache spike behind her right eye and has to take a cooling breath. 

Then Pierce steps right into her personal space, and she has to force herself to relax. “I know I mentioned this before, but it bears repeating. You look beautiful tonight.”

“Flattery will only get you so far, Mr. Secretary. You really need to—”

And then Pierce is kissing her. A thousand things threaten to overwhelm her in that instant. Beyond the physical impression, she can sense Steve through their bond, and it is singularly the most jarring sensation she has ever felt, to feel one man’s kiss and another man’s stark possessive touch. It’s too many things. 

Peggy pulls back, clearing her throat, and something on her face must give her away. 

“That was too much, wasn’t it?” Pierce asks in a concerned tone. “Too fast?”

Peggy swallows. “No,” she manages, ever the consummate spy. “No, not at all.”

This time, she kisses him. The entire time, it feels like a scream in her ear, a jarring physical pain in her chest, and she has no idea how to tamp down Steve’s emotions, or block him, or avoid thinking about the fact that he can _feel_ everything happening to her, can sense it in a wholly punishing way. He should have left when he had the chance, he should have avoided proximity with her when he knew she was on such an undertaking at hand. But it was perverse curiosity, she knows, that froze him. It didn’t need to be this wretched.

After a while Piece maneuvers them to the couch, but it becomes too much, kissing Pierce while Steve and the bond thunder in the back of her mind. She pulls back, and breathes heavily against Pierce’s collar, collecting herself. 

“Is it,” she says, quietly, “can we go slow? This is all… so new to me. I haven’t… I haven’t been with anyone since Steve. I don’t want to rush into anything.”

Pierce’s face is full of understanding, the bloody traitorous liar. “Of course.”

She excuses herself to the bathroom again, this time with the pretext of changing her clothes. In reality, she plans on pushing Steve to leave, making clear in no uncertain terms that his presence is only making things worse for everyone. She grabs a spare set of clothes and makes her way to the bathroom. But as soon as she closes the door, Steve has her pinned her to the wall, kissing her aggressively. His embrace is at once greedy and demanding, sliding his thigh between her legs, forcing her smaller frame immobile against him. All the emotions that had been deficient from Pierce’s embrace surge to the surface under Steve’s enterprising hands and lips. She has to swallow her moan, placing her hands against his shoulders, meaning to urge him back, thinking to stall where this is going. She knows instinctively where this will quickly lead.

“He’s right down the hall,” Peggy hisses.

Steve only responds, _“I know,”_ darkly possessive and incessant, leaning over to suck on her ear lobe.

It’s still a shock, though, when she feels him gathering up the folds of her dress, bunching them around her waist so he has better access to her underwear. His fingers trip over the waistline, then underneath, shoving one hand inside and then rubbing urgently against her. Peggy doesn’t quite swallow this next moan, escaping past her constricted throat without any permission. She drops her head forward onto his shoulders, biting at his corded muscles through his shirt to silence herself, needing Steve in that moment in a way she can’t describe. She wants him, and this is rash, so entirely stupid.

But when he slides two fingers inside her, Peggy knows there won’t be any stopping them now. She can’t pull away from Steve, or push him back, or call him out on his ridiculous behavior. He continues to finger-fuck her against the door, thumb rubbing at her clit in circular motions, and Steve has himself worked up equally, driven into a storm that won’t allow a single beam of clarity across; god knows she shot at him once, when she discovered him kissing another woman behind a rack of documents. She’s never managed jealousy well. She can’t cast stones. But… _Jesus._

He makes her come with only his fingers, within short minutes, her climax hitting so hard he has to cover her mouth with his free hand, trying to keep her quiet. He doesn’t seek his own release. In that way, he hasn’t even done anything more than sloppily kiss her. But when he steps back and lets the folds of her dress fall down again, he looks immensely satisfied with himself. 

Then his phone vibrates. Steve pulls it out, and says, “Nat’s done at his house. Pierce can leave.”

“Oh,” Peggy manages, not quite able to process everything yet.

She eventually recovers enough to glare at the smug expression on his face, but doesn’t achieve much more than that. She hurriedly changes into the spare set of clothes, trying her best to ignore Steve’s greedy stare as she disrobes, but she’s squandered too much time already. She pulls her hair back into a sloppy bun, refusing to look to Steve again, marching out the door with a flushed face.

She finds Pierce waiting on her couch, more or less guileless. 

When she finally manages to get Pierce to leave, promising a follow-up date, she goes back to the bathroom and lets Steve fuck her against the wall.

#

Just before dawn Steve tries not to wake her as he creeps out of her bedroom, having slept far later than he should have. Peggy knows this, knows it’s probably for the best that he leaves, but she slips out of the bed and wanders out after him, dark hair tousled, eyes still drowsy, in a robe that she doesn’t finish wrapping around her nude body. 

“What are you doing up?” he asks her, with a half-scolding, half-groaning noise. He fixes her robe, tying it in place. “Go back to bed, Peg. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You’re not sneaking out, are you? You’re a little too old to be doing the Walk of Shame at this hour.”

“Peg, you know I gotta go. I shouldn’t have stayed so long.”

“You shouldn’t have done a lot of things last night, and yet here we stand.”

He swipes a hand across the back of his neck, bashful, but not particularly remorseful. “Yeah, I, uh—may have let things get away from me.”

She raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t say anything. It will always amaze her that he still hasn’t figured it out yet, even after all these years. Their attraction to each other isn’t something they control. God knows she tried to fight it at various points in her life. It led to exhaustion and heartache more than anything else. Peggy is rather over feeling hesitation about it.

“I have to go check on the others,” Steve says, breaking her thoughts. 

He does. He needs to leave, even though she abhors it.

She goes up on her tiptoes to kiss him goodbye, a healthy, heady kiss that almost gets things started again, but Steve pulls away with a groan and Peggy just silently laughs. He’s just about to leave, when Peggy turns serious. “Steve? Not that I didn’t enjoy last night, but it might be best if you send someone else to deliver intel and supplies when… when it comes to Pierce.”

His jaw clenches. He nods. 

He leaves.

#

She should’ve known the rest of the day would be catastrophic.

It starts out all right, seemingly. Pierce doesn’t intimate anything wrong, but she knows better than to think that means anything. Natasha insists she did as thorough a job as she could scrubbing all signs of a break-in and a fight from his residence, but it’s all a game of chance. Especially with Josef dead; the favorite and only remaining Winter Soldier would now be considered missing in action. She knows it’ll only be a matter of time before Pierce will become suspicious. Hopefully all this hasn’t been in vain. Natasha pulled a file from Pierce’s private laptop that looks promising. They’re still trying to decrypt it.

She busies herself with work. If she can’t outright help the team make headway with last night’s findings, she can at least gather intelligence under her cover. She has a meeting in New York in the evening, with another potential HYDRA informant. Officially, she’s meeting with another PR firm on the Avenger front, a wine and dine affair that will give her cover until the next day. But the plans are rudely interrupted in the morning when Peggy notices an unexpected detour in Pierce’s schedule. She has his entire itinerary covertly copied to her own account, and he’s cleared his entire day. That is more than a standard deviation from how Pierce normally operates. He is the furthest thing from spontaneous.

“You’re agitated,” Sharon notes during lunch, flint eyed. “You’re worried.”

Peggy doesn’t bother denying it, but she is surprised her niece picked up on the anxiety. “I have no proof anything is amiss.”

“Sometimes instincts are all we have to rely upon.”

Peggy doesn’t answer.

It isn’t as awkward as it once was, with Sharon. The woman is uncommonly bright and sharp-edged, clearly an asset in the field, but it’s more than that. The last few months have necessitated they maintain at least somewhat frequent lunches and social get-togethers to confirm and preserve their covers, as if they weren’t actually related by blood. It’s a sharp contrast to a few months ago, when Peggy had done her level best to keep herself apart from Sharon and Carl’s lives. Now, almost despite herself, she has developed somewhat of a relationship with both of them, especially Sharon. 

Peggy doesn’t know what it says about her that it took a conspiracy of a global scale to force her into becoming friendly with the only living blood relatives she has left. It can’t say anything good.

“Monitor Pierce’s whereabouts today,” Peggy instructs. “I would do it myself, but I feel after last night, I shouldn’t seem overly eager to Pierce. It’ll raise flags. And if I cancelled a scheduled trip to New York altogether, that, too, would be a noticeable deviation.”

Sharon nods. “I’ll get it done.”

But later on, Sharon informs her, too late, about Pierce making plans to leave the office. It’s as Peggy is seating herself in place on the helicopter she’s requisitioned for her trip. Pierce appears on the landing pad, quickly climbing on board.

“Alex?” she greets, trying to sound enthused and surprised. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Have to make a quick trip to New Jersey,” he declares with a disarming smile. “Figure you could deviate half an hour before your trip to New York.”

He nods back at the pilot, who takes off, while Peggy quickly asks, “What’s in New Jersey?”

“An old friend.”

Peggy doesn’t say anything to that.

When they’re finally up in the air, the helicopter flying over choppy seas, Pierce says, “There’s been something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“If it’s to ask me on another date, you should remember I already said yes last night.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I really wish things could have worked out another way.” He pulls out a gun. “I really did like you.”

Peggy presses her lips into a thin line, eyes flittering to the muzzle aimed her way, and then back up. “I didn’t think our date went that badly,” she offers, blandly.

“I should have listened to my gut instincts from the start,” he tells her, his face impossible to read. 

She dispenses with any cover. There's no point. “The distinction may be academic at this point, but when, exactly, did you sell your soul to the devil?”

“This has always been about protecting people.”

“This isn’t protection. This is fear. I took you as many things, Alex, but ultimately what you remain is a coward. Why else would you bring me here, in the middle of the ocean, unless you feared what I could do to you on even ground?”

“Even without your super strength, I have no intentions of seeing who comes out on top in a fight between us,” Pierce says, which at least confirmed that he still thought Steve dead. “But there comes a point where keeping your enemies close is just foolish,” Pierce says, then fires twice, point-blank range straight into Peggy’s chest, blood pooling at twin spots through her white chiffon blouse. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Peggy.”

Then he unceremoniously shoves Peggy’s body out the helicopter door, tumbling into the ocean.

#


	5. Chapter 5

#

Bells and whistles, a cacophony of alarms, wakes her up. She hadn’t even realized she’d blacked out, but there she is, waking up, wet and bleeding – but not dead, which is a surprise. She comes to with a sputter of water, disorientation and pain jarring her back to consciousness with no clear ability to parse details from the confusion. There’s a screen in front of her, technical displays of some sort, but she is in too much pain, so she can’t make sense of anything.

 _“—Ms. Carter,”_ JARVIS’ voice comes out of nowhere and reverberates everywhere. _“Please remain calm. Your vital signs are dropping. I’ve alerted Mr. Stark to your location. He’ll be here shortly.”_

“Wha—” she gasps, grimacing, staring into darkness.

_“You’re inside one of Mr. Starks prototypes, specially designed for you. Nanotechnology hidden within the wristwatch he gifted you. When your vital signs dropped, it automatically deployed.”_

It’s at this point, distantly, foggily, that Peggy realizes she’s lying at the bottom of the bloody ocean, in one of Tony’s Iron Man suits. The pitch-blackness beyond her visor should scare her, and it does, but it does justice to only half her terror. She’s been shot, twice, clean through the chest. She’s having trouble breathing, and if she had the wits to read the technical readouts across her visor, she would know just how badly her vitals are plummeting second-by-second, or how her suit’s metal is fatigued by the ocean pressure. 

“Pierce,” she mutters. She should’ve known. She should’ve known Pierce was onto her. _Stupid, stupid._ “Con… contact… S—”

 _“Ms. Carter, please save your strength. Your left lung is collapsed and you’re going into hypovolemic shock—”_

She passes out.

#

She awakes again briefly to Tony’s frenetic yelling. “ _Jesus Christ,_ not that I’m complaining, but how the hell are you still alive—”

“S-Steve,” Peggy stutters out. 

Tony actually freezes for a tick, shocked. “Son of a bitch, he’s still kicking, isn’t he? That’s how you’re—” Her vision spirals and she can’t think beyond the increasing agony in her chest. “No, no! Hang on! Keep your eyes open. JARVIS, E.T.A. to the closest hospital—”  


“No,” she wheezes. “No hospitals.”

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me—”

Blackness envelopes her.

#

She wakes up a few more times after that. None long enough to make sense of things, or of time. Once, she hears whispers and words, a heated exchange. “—you fucking _liar_ ,” Tony fumes.

“This isn’t the time, Tony.” _Steve._

She tries to say his name, but it doesn’t come out. 

#

A warm hand over hers. An anguished whisper in her ear. “Don’t you leave me again, Peg. Not again.”

#

Peggy slowly drifts into consciousness with an ache in her chest that only gets worse as she opens her eyes. She groans, blinking blearily before she’s able to make sense of her surroundings: the clinically sterile environment, the large compartment, the monitor beeping behind her, and the familiar form crumpled by her bedside. 

“St—” Peggy says, wincing as she accidentally tries to breathe in too deeply, and it _hurts._ “Steve?”

“Peg?” his head shoots up, frantic. “You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m—” Peggy draws in another painful breath. Things are too bright. She closes her eyes. “I’m fine, just...just a little...chest pain.”

“You took two bullets to the chest and nearly buried yourself at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Jesus, Peg. You’re lucky to be alive.”

She doesn’t feel lucky. She feels like someone struck her chest with Thor’s hammer. Then she pries open her eyes, spotting Steve’s rolled up sleeves and the gauze over his forearm where they took his blood. Another blood transfusion to reap the benefits of the soulbond and Steve’s regeneration. She has to close her eyes again to keep from crying.

“Tony?” she vaguely remembers, clearing her throat.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sounding worn-out and brittle. He taps the wristwatch that’s still on her left hand, a gold piece that she now knows hides nanotechnology; and to think, she’d scanned it only for bugs. “We maybe owe him a thank you card. And the name of our firstborn.”

She’d laugh, but it hurts to breathe. 

She also realizes for the first time that she’s in an advanced hypobaric chamber of some type, large enough to hold several people.

“He gave me an Iron Man suit?”

“He calls it _Lady Patriot_ ,” Steve informs, some velvetiness finally returning to his warm voice. “Apparently he started to design the thing as soon as he thought your superpowers went away. He was trying to convince you into rejoining the team, which makes everything all the more... just...” Steve sighs. “He's more pissed off at me than at you, for the record, but I don’t think either one of us comes out looking particularly well in his eyes.”

 _Oh, Tony._ She squeezes her eyes shut. What is it with the men in the Stark family and giving her elaborate superhero suits? When she opens her eyes again, her vision is truly blurry, and she thinks that maybe she should mention that to her nephew – he’s probably the one that’s been taking care of her, but she can already tell she’s not back in the underground bunker. It’s somewhere else, too nice and polished for a normal Shield safehouse. 

Probably something of Tony’s, if she were a betting woman. 

But then Steve is brushing away the water escaping the corner of her eye, and she realizes her vision isn’t the problem after all. She turns her face towards Steve, because she wants to see his face, even if it’s too gaunt and pinched with worry. He gently brushes her bruised cheek with his thumb, and she feels like hell, but somehow, she thinks she might look better than Steve. 

“You nearly died on me,” Steve whispers in a strangled voice. _“Again.”_

She realizes he’s crying too, regarding her with a broken, solemn look that rips right through her. She reaches out, tangled up in tubes and wires, brushing a palm against his graying beard, wanting to offer something, say something to comfort him. She can’t think of a thing. She’s reminded that he may be older than her now, by decades, but he’s always been an old soul. Maybe that would always cling to him, she thinks. Maybe he spent too long as her widower? Too many decades bearing the grief of her loss, this misery always one layer below his skin. A raw nerve awaiting re-exposure. 

He sits closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then one below to her cheek. When she feels the wetness on his face, she doesn’t comment. Just closes her eyes, and manages a _“I’m here, Steve,”_ because that’s the only thing she can say, the only thing she can assure him of. She can’t say, _I’m fine,_ because she’s not sure she is. She can’t say, _it won’t happen again_ , because in all likelihood, given their lives, it probably might. She can’t truly comfort him from that, because she knows making promises regarding her own safety is just insincere, no matter how much she may want to mean them at the time that they are uttered.

Her throat feels constricted as he brings her palm to his lips, placing a gentle kiss there. “I’m sorry, darling,” she finally manages, finding words, “for putting you through that. Pierce was…” Peggy finds herself at a loss for how she let him gain the upper hand against her. It is unforgivable.

Steve’s face closes off, fast. “Don’t worry about him.”

“He doesn’t know about you,” she manages. It is a small comfort, but vital.

“He may not know I’m alive, but he has the rest declared enemies of the state. Tony, included.”

“He can’t seriously get… away with that.” She detests that she has to pause to catch her breath in the middle of a sentence.

“He already has, with the Council’s blessing. Maria is still on the inside, but other than that, the rest of us are burned.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Everyone’s safe. Just… bruised, for the moment.” 

“Jesus, Steve… how are we going to prove… Pierce is Hydra?”

“I don’t know,” he answers. “But we’ll figure it out. Stop talking and rest, Peg.”

She can’t. “Did we get anything,” she takes another labored breath, “from the file on his personal laptop?”

Steve flinches. “It was a Trojan Horse. It was traced back to the bunker. We barely got out before a bogie hit us from the air.”

“Good god,” she says, eyes wide, “is everyone’s fine?”

“Everyone’s fine,” Steve assures. “You and Buck got the worst of everything. Story of my life.”

It’s her turn to flinch. She reaches over and brushes the hair back out of his eyes. “Is he all right?” 

“Better than you,” he tells her, bleakly. 

Which isn’t saying much, as she feels like roadkill.

The silence stretches out in long, slow breaths, in the gentle beeping of her monitor, a steady rhythm. He watches her through red-rimmed eyes, and she drifts uncomfortably somewhere between oblivion and awareness. She wants to think things through, but her mind and body feel overwhelmed. 

How are they going to salvage this? 

She should’ve stopped all of this from happening in the first place. 

“Hey,” Steve tells her. “We’ll figure all of that out later. Just rest. You need rest.”

#

The next few days are a logistical nightmare as she recovers in the hypobaric chamber. The others try to regroup around the glass windows, peering in on her like she’s a pet goldfish, faces full of frowns. Bucky is on the mend, too, not quite as bad as Peggy, which is rather alarming because he looks _awful,_ face entirely bruised, his good arm in a sling. Peggy cannot imagine what state she must look, if she’s considered _worse_. She hasn’t focused too much on mirrors lately, partially because the reflection is so abhorrent with bloodshot eyes, body riddled with abrasions and bruises, some from the trauma of the fall, others from the decompression sickness that has caused blotchy rashes all over her face and body. It really is miraculous that she’s alive.

Steve seems to have made himself a potted plant at her side, her main company inside the hypobaric chamber. Everyone else negotiates space outside her windows, going over options and strategies with too many variables. The conversation circles in a drain, frustratingly enough, over how Pierce realized Peggy’s deception, and who he’d been headed to see in New Jersey when he’d so abruptly disposed of her. No one has any solid intel or guesses, nothing beyond wild speculation. Even Tony, who hacked the helicopter’s manifest, isn’t able to produce anything of substance.

When she’s finally released from the chamber, her joints ache and she can’t breathe normally. They’ve turned the formal dining room, an elaborate and well-lit area with an expensive chandelier hanging overhead, into a command center of sorts. She was right about the safehouse being Tony’s, as if the décor hadn’t been a dead giveaway. The safehouse is roughly equidistant from both New York and DC, but she doesn’t imagine anyone is around for miles because it’s secluded in the back of some woodlands. 

She suffers through Carl's treatment, but somehow he quickly realizes that she isn't in the most cooperative moods when sick and ailing; Steve takes it upon himself to handle the bulk of her daily care as she recuperates – dressing changes, dispensing medication, monitoring her vitals, etc... For the most part, Peggy is more than happy to avoid the solicitous gazes of others as she recovers, and Steve muddles through her termperments with a calming perseverance, so she is marginally less truculent with his tending. Aside from that, with the group, the space is at best a hard-won truce and at worst claustrophobic. Her niece and nephew do their part to run errands and obtain supplies, as they’re the least recognizable pair in a group full of Avengers. Although Fury isn’t universally known, with his one eye, he isn’t unnoticeable either.

Despite it being Tony’s quarters, she can count on one hand that she has come across the man in question. He left for a few days at the beginning, situating Pepper into another safe house, far away from this horrible madness. When he came back, he took to tinkering all hours of the day in the basement on god knows what. 

Bucky spends the majority of the time sulking, for lack of a better word, and Peggy assumes it’s for the normal reasons until she sees him interact with Natasha, moving about like some carefully orchestrated minuet to a tune no one else can hear. Whatever had been the extent of their acrimonious history together, it’s changed in scope somehow, a quality that she watches with frank interest.

“What do you imagine that’s about?” she asks Steve, who immediately stiffens, a clear sign he knows something. “What? What is it?”

He shakes his head, a little dazed. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you – which I can’t, because Buck asked me not to.”

“What? Are they involved with each other?”

The look on Steve’s face says something else, though. Peggy can get it out of Steve, if she presses, but she would rather not impinge on any of Bucky’s hard-earned trust issues. Not for something as paltry as salacious curiosity.

“Leave it alone,” Steve insists, tightly. “Trust me, you don’t want to get in the middle of that.”

“Get in the middle of what?” Peggy asks, despite herself. 

He doesn’t answer, instead trying to distract her with food. Which, she is hungry, but she isn’t a child either and doesn’t need to be minded like one; she hates being told what to do and when to eat. She much prefers it when Steve is more focused on clandestine activities in the dark, the kind that leave her knickers dangling around her ankles. There hasn’t been any opportunity for such deeds, though, despite the fact that Peggy has reminded Steve on more than one occasion that reliable sources indicate intimate actions between soulbonds would help with the healing process. She’s mainly pressing the issue to see the lovely shade of red it turns Steve, or the particularly heated looks it garners from him on his more contemplative moments. 

Mostly, though, her injuries are too extreme for that type of recreational activity, and they both know it. At least for the moment.

“Eat up,” Steve chides. “You need your energy.”

“For what, exactly?” Peggy asks, with a forlorn sigh. 

#

She is still supposed to be under bed rest, but if anyone asks, Carl gave her the go-ahead to walk around – which he didn’t, of course. She’s dressed in loose sweatpants and a thin sleeveless top. Her feet are only covered in slippers. It takes her by surprise, somehow, how much easier it is to move day by day. She might not yet have anything close to a recovery, but the coiled life still simmering under her skin is a gift, and she will never fail to appreciate that.

Outside, the lake is a dazzling clear blue, reflecting the sharp bright sky so well it looks like one sky is on top of another. The fresh air does her some good, but she isn’t looking for that. She picks her way slowly, still awkwardly maneuvering despite her advance healing, along the grass line to where she can see Tony sitting. The day is stiflingly hot, so he’s sitting in the shade on a lawn chair of some type, sipping some fruity drink. 

“Are you supposed to be up?” Tony asks.

“I think it’s best if I resume some activity, don’t you think?”

“That the doc’s orders?”

Carl may have called her his worst patient ever, but Peggy isn’t willing to admit that. “We each have our interpretations of orders. I’m sure you can appreciate the sentiment.”

He snorts, shaking his head, then blurts out, like there’s any correlations between the thoughts, “God, you're good. You are mind-blowingly great at the stiff upper lip. How do you do it? You lie, you nearly die, and still, you’re as cool as cucumber like none of that made a difference to you. Is there anything that gets past your armor?"

Peggy stares at him, stung but blank faced, only proving his point. “Say it, Tony.”

“Say what?”

“Say what you _want_ to say to me, but haven’t yet because I was dying. Well, I’m not dying anymore. Clearly you know I can take it. So, say it.”

He stares at her, blinking for a moment, where she can plainly see Tony debating about his next words, a choice between poison or banality, picking a fight or brushing her off. As predicted, anger falls across his face like a curtain, full of that stinging bite of betrayal. 

His mouth downturns. “I thought we were friends.”

Peggy takes a steadying breath. “We _are_ , Tony.”

“You have a funny way of showing it.”

“I...” she hesitates, looking away. “I know. I'm sorry.” 

He grunts, disdainfully. 

There’s no point in defending herself. Tony will take umbridge in his treatment, and she can’t particularly blame him. She could counter with the fact that she had wanted him along the entire time, but no one had forced Peggy’s hand in keeping the secret. She’d agreed, ultimately, to the plan set out by Steve and the others. She has her part to blame in all of this, and she won’t take cover behind the deference Tony has routinely shown her, a regard she’s not sure she’s earned in the same way she earned it with Howard. It would be tempting to play upon his old sympathies, or hide behind the sympathies of her recent near-fatal injuries, because she knows she’s managed to bend Tony to her bidding more than a few times without so much as breaking a sweat, but it wouldn’t be right. 

Tony Stark, for all his mulish and ostentatious behavior, can be quite a soft touch when it comes to certain people in his life. If she took advantage of that, she’d be no better than a vulture. She betrayed him. She knows she has to take her lump of coal for that. She just hopes there isn’t irreparable damage.

“You know if you’d let me in from the beginning,” he says, “Hydra would already be six feet in the ground, right? Now this thing is going to mean the end of Shield.”

"The world has changed, and none of us can go back. All we can do is our best, and sometimes, the best that we can do is to start over."

“The old man know that?”

“You’ve never given him enough credit, you know?”

“You’ve always given him too much,” Tony counters.

#

Despite gains, she still wakes dizzy, disoriented and weak. She sleeps longer hours too, which is why it’s never a surprise to find herself alone in bed when she wakes in the morning. Steve doesn’t need much sleep, but she suspects that he’s always been a morning person, even pre-serum. Peggy, on the other hand, isn’t. It’s discipline more than anything that makes her rise with the dawn. Today, she wakes well near the afternoon. By the time she is dressed and ready for the day, the house feels alarmingly silent. She finds Steve and Fury sitting near the breakfast nook, sorting through files of some kind, talking in hushed tones about a mission. They fall silent the moment she enters the room, but Steve must know she’s heard more than enough.

“What mission?” she asks.

“Something off the coast of California,” Fury replies. “I’ve sent the team there to retrieve some potential intelligence. It’s a long shot, but at this point, everything is a long shot.”

She tries to hide the instinctive soreness, but she knows she’s not nearly in the shape she needs to be to join missions. “Who went?”

“Natasha,” Steve answers, taking a breath, “Tony and Bucky.”

Peggy’s eyebrows flick heavenwards. “Tony went on a mission with Bucky? How on Earth did that go down?”

“Not easily,” Steve replies, with a wince. “But Nat seemed to think they wouldn’t try to outright kill each other.”

Maybe, but Peggy has her doubts. Tony has been angry with everyone, but for obvious reasons, his antagonism towards Bucky has been volatile. Peggy only saw them in the same room once together. She can still vividly remember Tony becoming overwrought with anger, spewing jauntily-snarling streams of attacks, thankfully only verbal, a dark engine grease-stain smeared across his forehead; Bucky had just _stood_ there, immobile, silent, expression grim-set and passive as he absorbed each insult like an expected lash across his back. She can’t imagine them going out into the field is a good way to test the waters.

“Natasha said she could handle it?” Peggy clarifies.

“She said they wouldn’t kill each other,” Steve corrects.

Peggy frowns. She wishes her body would hurry up and heal, already. They can’t afford for her to be on the sidelines for much longer.

Fury says, “If all goes to plan, they’ll retrieve the info and be back by nightfall.” He lifts to his feet. “In the meantime, rest up, Carter. We’ll be needing you at your full capacity.”

“Fury,” she nods towards him, as he leaves.

Steve returns back to the paperwork before him, absorbed, and Peggy is at a loss for what to do. She needs to build up her endurance, so she decides to go to the gym and use the treadmill for a while. 

It’s a mistake. 

She isn’t even in the warm-up stages before she feels winded, her chest and joints aching with a pain she finds as unfamiliar as it is maddening. But she can’t fail, again. She can’t afford to let weakness overcome her. But there she is, body broken into shards of glass while Pierce is poised for success. Her incompetence and failure in handling this entire thing has landed Hydra a victory. 

That is unacceptable.

Peggy gets up, still breathing heavily, and climbs back onto the treadmill. She forgoes the warmup, instead inclining heavily and setting a demanding speed. She pushes through the pain; she forces her body to endure and deal. It isn’t pleasant. The longer she runs, the more her body cries out, the more she wants to _literally_ cry. She suffers the crushingly fast pace for nearly half an hour before the edges of her vision start to turn wobbly, before her breathing is so compromised that she all but blackouts on the treadmill.

She doesn’t, thankfully. It isn’t a dignified stop, but Peggy recovers, doubled-over, sweat-soaked and bitterly annoyed at her own betraying body. What good is she to the team if she can’t fight alongside them? It’s never taken her this long to recover from something. It’s never been a matter of so many days.

“It’s because I’m getting older,” Steve announces, knowingly, from behind.

She whirls to find him standing at the entrance. How long he’s been watching her, she doesn’t know, but long enough for his disbelief and anger, if he had any at her antics, to have passed. She must have been so caught up in her own turmoil that she hadn’t even registered his presence. Steve looks resignedly tired as he steps into the gym and hands her a small towel and a bottle of water. She accepts both eagerly. 

She wipes at her forehead, frowning, as he explains, “I know you hate it when I bring this up, but I’m not a young man anymore. I’m not in my prime, Peg. The serum has done for me what it can, and now it’s on it’s decline. Since you’re sharing the side-effects of that through the soulbond, you’re going to have to deal with it too.”

The words leave an uncomfortable silence in its wake. She’d already realized a bit, to be honest. When she woke up from the ice, she hadn’t been as strong or as fast as she had been before going in. She was still strong enough to break metal with her hands, and still fast enough to run paces around everyone else. There was no one else in the world that would have known the slightest bit of difference between what she could do before, and what she could do now – no one, aside from Steve.

But the regeneration – she hadn’t noticed that, before. She’d always recovered well enough from any injuries. She had nearly killed herself this time, of course. But the thought of their regeneration waning is more than just uncomfortable. It is frightening in a way she can’t put into words, and it isn’t about self-preservation, either. Steve’s super serum has always protected them both, but the most precious gift it's given Peggy is more time with Steve. It’s made him age unnaturally slow. 

Steve appears at her side, his hand immediately going to the small of her back in a move that is as protective as it is possessive. Not long ago, he would have avoided touching her at all costs, too afraid of their soulbond to risk even the slightest of touches. So many years – _decades_ – wasted. How is she supposed to accept the idea of his regeneration power waning just as they’re reconnecting?

“I’m going to take a shower,” she says, disquieted, feeling like her whole worldview has been thrown into askew.

Her body protests any movement, but Peggy forces herself to move.

#

She is in a foul mood during the shower. She is in a foul mood when she collapses into bed and wakes hours later, throat parched and body aggrieved. She is in a foul mood while she pulls on another Shield standard issue sweatpants, tank top and sweater, and especially while she forces herself to eat, and even more so when she feels like throwing up. 

Her mood continues when she comes across the team in their post-mission debrief, where she walks in having missed the first half. Apparently, the mission went even worse than imagined because somehow of all the possible ways for it to have gone south between Tony and Bucky, the tension that stands out the most in the room is erected between _Natasha_ and Bucky. Natasha is pissed at him for something, clearly, but the details are hard to parse. Peggy would press the issue, but it’s taking all her considerable strength just to remain focused and standing. Her body _aches_. She decides not to draw attention to herself.

“But why couldn’t you recover the intel?” Fury asks, only interested in one thing.

“If by recover,” Tony says, “you mean _set on fire_ , then yes. We could have gotten it done. A resounding success under that parameter.”

Fury looks tired. “That only leaves one option left. The next target is a mobile satellite launch platform, the _Lemurian Star_. They carry massive intel and send it out, but if rumors are true, it’ll be navigating through the Indian Ocean in three days’ time, getting ready to launch another targeting satellite into orbit. A targeting satellite likely to be used for Project Insight.”

Steve nods, turning to the group at large. “Nat, prep the mission parameters. You’ll leave first thing Monday morning with Bucky and Tony.”

Peggy feels the bite of exclusion clamp down, hard.

“Are you sure about Barnes?” Tony asks Steve. “Let it be known I was not the problem during this mission. Your BFF was.”

Bucky doesn’t bother denying it, just straightens his shoulders and squares his jaw, approachable and collected and open as a bear. “There won’t be any problems,” he assures, coolly.

Tony snorts disdainfully, opens his mouth to stay something stinging, but is cut off by a surprising interjection from Natasha. “I agree with Tony,” she says.

“Excuse me,” Tony says in shock, while Bucky nearly explodes with, _“What the fuck?”_

Natasha ignores them both, turning to Fury and Steve. “My recommendation is that Barnes stay back on the next operation. He’s not ready for another mission,” Natasha says, flatly. “He’s too… _compromised_. Until he gets his head on straight, he’s a danger to everyone in the field.”

Steve stares at her intently, processing everything. “Let me talk with Bucky in private,” he determines. 

Peggy gets the sense she has only half the picture, but everyone but the pair disperses to take their leave. Natasha, especially, escapes quickly. It isn’t more than a five-minute discussion before Bucky storms away furiously, clearly having lost the argument. She doesn’t know exactly what transpired on the mission, and normally she could go to Tony, at the very least, to clear up the confusion, but she doesn’t even feel comfortable doing that. It’s obvious there was more than just a mistake or a slip up on the mission. Natasha outright called out Bucky’s capabilities.

Peggy feels the familiar itch of restlessness under her skin. She has her routines now, the daily check-ups with Carl, but she can’t trust herself not to bite his head off for the inevitable and sarcastic comment on how she overexerted herself in exercise. Whatever gains she’s made in the last few days may have unspooled because of her stubborn workout. She knows Carl will never give her the medical release to join the team on Monday’s mission.

Peggy firmly reaches a new resolution to her ailments, a bit of a mercenary tactic of _needs-must_ , but it’ll hardly be a chore. If she plans on being there for the mission on Monday, then she needs to be in a better shape. Exercise had not helped. Something else might, though. Intimacy with a soulbond, as it were. She tries to get a hold of Steve, which is a bit of a process all on its own, because she slowly realizes he’s avoiding her. She’s not sure why. At first, she wonders if he’s somehow caught onto her plans, and is doing his best to avoid being alone with her, a certain flavor of _prevention over rejection_ playing out, because he’s still rather too concerned about her ailments to enthusiastically participate in the type of “healing therapies” Peggy has in mind. 

Steve spends the next hour going over logistics of the mission with Fury. After that, it’s dinner, a cluster of growing people gathered around Chinese take-out, where Steve studiously ignores the invitation of her hand on his thigh underneath the table and everything it implies; after that, he’s speaking to Natasha in quiet hushed tones about something not meant for other’s ears. Normally, that would only make Peggy curiouser, but Bucky’s presence suddenly blocks her view. Peggy lifts an eyebrow at him. 

“You look like shit,” he tells her. 

She glares. “I beg your pardon. Unlike your mother, Barnes, I don’t suffer the presence of unmannered fools.”

He blinks. “Did you just throw a _your mama_ joke at me?”

Peggy is still in a mood. “I’m tired, Bucky. Unless you plan on having an entire houseful of people peeved at you, I suggest you leave your pleasant sarcasm for another day and another target.”

“Yeah, well. Steve is doing that whole _things-with-Peggy-are-troubled_ glower that he gets whenever you two are on the outs. It’s been seventy years, and it’s abnormally unchanged.”

“Is there something you wanted to say to me, Bucky?” 

His lips press into a thin line. “You need to talk to Steve. I want to be on that mission on Monday.”

“You and me both.”

“Yeah, but only one of us can convince Steve to change his mind, and it’s not me.”

She pauses. “Bucky, if Natasha recommended you to stand down, she must have her reasons. I’m not going to countermand that.”

His hands clench into fists at his sides, but before his anger can explode, he marches away.

She turns back to Steve, and that’s when it suddenly hits her, of course. Steve’s innate overprotectiveness. That’s why he’s avoiding her. She should have realized it during her little self-destructing moment at the gym. She knows Steve doesn’t know how to handle her injuries any more than she does, and the idea of him somehow _failing_ to help her heal, even in such unique circumstances as his regenerative abilities through the soulbond fizzling out, lends himself perfectly to guilt. He’s always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and she feels so angry at herself for not realizing what her earlier moods and actions have inadvertently done. 

Oh, for heaven’s sake. 

She waits until Natasha has left before she approaches him.

“No,” Steve says, before she can speak. “You are not going on the mission.”

Peggy clamps her mouth shut, but only for a moment. “Can I speak to you,” she demands, more than asks, “in private.”

He freezes, a vein in his neck throbbing. “No,” he comes to the conclusion. “We can have our conversation just fine right here.”

Evidently, he’s caught on to her shameless plans and doesn’t anticipate participation. Apparently, he’s determined that this is the best way to prevent her attempt at joining the mission. She thinks he’s massively overestimating his ability to avoid her until Monday, especially now that they sleep in the same bed. 

“Do you think,” Peggy offers, wryly, “that an audience will prevent me from speaking certain things or taking certain actions? Because I can assure you, of the two of us, you’re far more prone to embarrassment.”

She has him there, and by the redness spreading into the tips of his ears, they both know it. 

The house is crowded, so the only places afforded to them for privacy is either their bedroom or the library. Steve determinedly picks his way to the library. Bless him. She’s not sure whether to be more amused or annoyed. She isn’t sure what Steve expects when they’re alone, perhaps another cutting conversation, an outright fight, or for her to just drop trou for him unabashedly; certainly not, from his startled response, a quiet and tight, _“I’m sorry,”_ to spill out of Peggy’s lips as soon as the door closes behind them.

“For what?” he asks, because it’s not often she apologizes for anything. 

A byproduct, Peggy insists, of usually being right.

But she owes him a genuine apology. “I’ve been so wrapped up in my own troubles, in my own worries and self-recriminations, I never stopped to think about what all of this is doing to you. I’m sorry, Steve.”

He closes his eyes, shoulders sinking a little, quickly disarmed. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Peg. If anything—”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Steve. You do, and I will _throttle_ you.”

He huffs a small laugh.

“You deserve better,” she tells him, in all-seriousness. “I should’ve realized what the conversation earlier today meant for you. And I know your regenerative abilities slowing down, or worse, is something that is first and foremost happening to you.” 

She has more to say, but he doesn’t let her finish.

“I don’t care about that,” Steve tells her, flatly. “If it’s my time, Peg, then it’s my time. But the thought of something happening to you—”

“Steve, stop.”

“Don’t tell me not to worry about that!” he snaps. “You were just fished out of the ocean, half-dead.”

He paces to the far end of the library, taking off his jacket like the room is suddenly too warm, throwing it carelessly across the back of a small wingchair. It occurs to her, probably too late, that she isn’t the only one that has been suffering in more ways than one. He slumps into the chair, face buried in his hands, and Peggy comes up behind him, gentle palms on the broad shoulders that peek out above the chair. “Hush now, darling,” she tells him, “I’m right here.”

Even with his back to her, she can tell the words have a calming effect.

But when she presses a kiss against the nape of his neck, she feels him tense back up. “Peg,” he warns. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I didn’t think I was attempting to be subtle about it.”

She notices his shudder when she licks a long sinewy line up his neck, hears the sharp intake of his breath. Peggy’s own heart starts hammering in her chest, and it’s been weeks since she last felt this exhilaration. She can feel the air thicken with equal parts delight (Peggy’s), apprehension (Steve’s), and longing (both). 

Despite this, Steve is very, very still in his seat. “You want to go on the _Lemurian Star_ mission,” he says, not wrong. “And you think this is the best way to—” 

She perches on the arm of the chair, staring at him. “Do you really think some puerile research about soulbonding and healing is the only reason I’m doing this?”

“I think it bears a significant factor.”

She won’t deny that. "Why is it always so bloody melodramatic? Maybe I need my good mood restored? On that note, take your shirt off, please."

That gets a sharp laugh. "Seriously, Peg?"

"What, I said _please._ " She dramatically drapes herself across him, then nibbles at the cords on his throat. He doesn’t resist, she notes. “Maybe I need a diversion from all the drama?” 

"Now I'm a diversion? I should take offense."

“If you just listen to what I say, I can make you feel better.” It is, without a doubt, a blatant appeal to his protective instincts when she whispers into his ear, in an affected voice, “But don’t you want,” she nips at his ear, “to make _me_ feel better, Steve? I’ve had such a horrible streak of luck lately.” 

Steve’s spine straightens, and she knows even the specter of protest has evaporated. In one quick movement, Steve grabs her by the ass and pulls her body flush against him. He lifts her up in his arms and is carrying her across the room to the large desk near the bay windows. He sets her on the edge. "I thought what we have is more than just a _distraction._ A significant, everlasting bond—" His sentence stutters out momentarily when she rubs eagerly at the growing bulge in his trousers, but he carries on, stubborn and insistent. “Not some superficial and torrid— _oh, Jesus, Peg_. _Fuck._ ”

“It’s a conspiracy to corrupt you,” she answers archly, having cupped him through his clothes, now captivated by the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he thickly swallows. “Captain America, sullied by the wanton desires of a woman who knows what she wants. Ruining your honor and integrity.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Hmm,” she hums agreeably. 

“And if I _want_ to be corrupted?”

“Minor detail,” she answers. “Otherwise you’d already have your shirt off. When I’ve asked politely and everything. Honestly, it’s rude. Must a lady do everything herself?” 

“Oh, so first you’re a wanton woman and now you’re a lady?”

“Steve?”

“Yes?”

“If I don’t see rippling muscles in the next thirty seconds, I assure you there will be hell to pay.”

Steve makes a face. “I’m well beyond the age of rippling muscles, Peg.”

“Oh Jesus,” she sighs. “You really must invest in better mirrors.”

She starts untucking his shirt from his trousers, kissing him the entire time. When she urges his shirt up, they pull apart and Steve obediently allows her to pull it off him. He still has his damn undershirt and all the rest of his clothing, but at least she has more skin to press kisses into. He has other plans, though, urging her with a gentle palm to lay back down over the desk. He tugs off her ugly sweatpants and panties in one-go, then presses kisses down her stomach as he shoves her legs apart with his knees. 

When he crouches down between her parted thighs, he groans. “You’ve wanted me to do this all day, haven’t you? You’re already so ready.” _So wet,_ he doesn’t say.

“Did you think I put my hand on your thigh during dinner as a tease?” she replies. “You know what I was thinking.”

Steve gives her a dark, hooded look that makes her breath catch. He hooks one of her legs over his shoulder and, wasting no more time, buries his face between her legs. Peggy unrepentantly enjoys the view, his broad shoulders and chest, the sight of him so clearly enjoying himself giving her pleasure. Then his tongue and mouth start to get inventive, moving in no two ways the same, and Peggy’s head falls back to the desk. He’s always so _good_ at this, so dedicated and singularly focused. Sometimes she can’t remember her own name.

He lingers for a moment at _just_ the right spot, sucking hard, his lips and tongue hot on her flesh, while Peggy clutches at his shoulders and hair, trying to remember they’re in a crowded residence with a house full of people, until she finally comes with a sharp cry, her mind streaked blissfully blank.

When he pulls back, she knows she’s going to have beard-burns on her thighs, but she can’t bring herself to care. 

She feels better too, like she can breathe in a way she hasn’t been able to in _days_. When she tells him that, tells him that _he made her feels so good_ , he just kisses a line up her body, emboldened, taking off her sweater and shirt, palming her breasts. His touch is gentle though, mindful of the places where she took two hits to the chest, but already she’s ready, eager and waiting to take him in. 

“Steve,” she murmurs, another order. “ _Now, please_.”

“Shh,” he tells her. “I’ll make you feel good.” He slides in, hot and thick. His thrusts are at once forceful and deep. “I’ll make you feel so good,” he promises, growling, driving into her. “So good, Peg.”

(He does.)

#

“You realize I have cameras in the library, right?” Tony asks. “Any place aside from the bedrooms are monitored.”

Peggy’s spine straightens. “Delete the footage,” she hisses. _“Now.”_

Tony lifts his hands up, apparently in surrender, but she hates the smirk on his face. “No, no, don’t worry. There’s protocol when people’s clothes start coming off. Remember this is my place. Jarvis knows to shut down monitoring. Still, next time—”

 _“Tony,”_ she warns. “Stop talking.”

“On my desk, too. I do _work_ there.” His smirk is incandescent. “Gotta say, didn’t think Gramps had it in him.”

“Not one word of this to anyone.”

“Sure, Peg, Scout’s Honor.”

“Tony, no one in their right mind would ever believe you were in the Boy Scouts.”

“You look better today, though. More color in your cheeks—”

He barely ducks her incoming right hook.

#

Carl reluctantly approves her for the _Lemurian Star_ mission when he sees the dramatic improvement in her health. "You realize just because you're feeling better, it doesn't mean you're back to being 100%? You're not invincible."

"That fact has been made abundantly clear lately," Peggy assures him. "I am not reckless, Carl."

He frowns. "But you're not careful, either."

She's been getting this lecture too much lately. "You may not understand this because you live a civilian life, but sometimes one cannot always afford to be careful."

"You think I don't know that?" he tosses back, incredulous. "My sister signed herself up for Shield at the age of eighteen. My father worked for that damn organization for decades. Also, the uncle who used to cheer me on during my little league baseball games starred in his own comic books series. And I grew up on stories about a woman that both men considered to be a bigger hero than either of themselves. Sharon and I went to bed listening to stories about how you used to knock a man out cold long before you had superpowers."

The words are somehow both disheartening and heartwarming.

"And you know what?" Carl adds, angrily. "I would have traded every single one of those stories to have my Aunt Peggy. But you made a call to nosedive that plane into the ocean. Sure, you did it to save lives. You did it heroically. But maybe, I don't know. I listened to the last words you told Uncle Steve over the radio. I listened to how he pled for you to give him your coordinates. Sometimes, I wonder if you'd just been a little bit less brave and a little bit more cautious, if everything else would have played out differently." 

The reprimand leaves her stricken. And, shockingly, speechless. She feels like she's staring at her brother in that moment; Michael, angry and combative, telling her she's made herself into something false, fooled herself into believing a horrible version of herself.

"Take care of yourself, Aunt Peggy," Carl says. "There's people that you would leave behind if you didn't look after yourself."

#

She is in a quiet state the rest of the day. If anyone else notices, they don’t comment. Except Bucky Barnes, but he’s always been brave, if not stupid, and certainly more daring than the three ounces of survival instincts he apparently comprehends. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks, distantly, when she catches him staring.

Others would retreat at her dismissive tone. Bucky doesn’t. A more mercurial man she will never find. He is at times taciturn, and other times jovial. She might never be able to accurately predict which one she’ll encounter. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Bucky returns, with a lopsided frown, “about your soulbond.”

Peggy sighs. She doesn’t believe Tony’s urge to tease would transcend into sharing anything with Bucky. “What is your question?”

He hesitates for a moment. “Well, it’s not so much a question.” 

Peggy lifts an eyebrow at him, waiting. He’s been hedging around something for the last few days, avoiding most everybody. She thought it might have something to do with his innate inclinations towards isolation now, post-deprogramming. Or Tony. She’s most recently amended the presumption to include Natasha at the top of the list, observing their continued careful minuet that they appear forever locked and engaged in. No one speaks about it, outside of the one conversation she had with Steve, but they are all spies or soldiers to one extent or another. None of them are blind.

“Out with it, Barnes,” she tells him, impatient.

He takes a breath. “Yeah, okay. I’ll just rip the bandage off, yeah.” When he rolls up his right sleeve, up to the shoulder, it manages to catch her so completely by surprise that she gasps. Literally _gasps_. Because there, on the back of his bicep, is a vibrant tattoo of a small red hourglass. 

“Bucky, is that… is that—”

“You would know,” he returns.

A soulmark.

The hourglass. Otherwise known as the symbol of… _oh_. “So, Natasha is—”

“Natasha is scary as shit, is what she is,” he cuts her off. “And I don’t think either of us know what to do about this.”

She tries to work out the logistics as quickly as she can, while still reeling from the information. Soulmarks are rarer now than they were even in the forties. Peggy can count on one hand the number of soulmates she’s met in her long and complicated life. Bucky must have had these marks since the eighties, when Natasha was first born. 

Which meant Natasha must have had her matching mark all her life. Peggy has never seen it on Natasha; never heard Natasha talk about it; never even glimpsed anything about it even in passing reference. Not surprising, given Natasha’s predilections for privacy while making a mockery of it for others, and her spycraft has always been topnotch. Peggy certainly can’t take offense at the secret. God knows Peggy concealed her own soulmark for nearly a year after its initial discovery, including hiding it from Steve himself. That wasn’t even taking into consideration the horrible complications of Hydra, the Red Room, and Shield. Peggy can’t even begin to untangle the complicated and thorny issues their past must contain and shroud, but she is rather impressed at their ability to keep their evolving circumstances a secret for these last few months.

“May I?” Peggy asks, stepping nearer, examining the mark. Bucky nods, and upon closer examination, Peggy can recognize healed burn marks around the edges, faint traces of scarred tissue. “Why is it—”

“Hydra tried to remove evidence of it, from time to time,” Bucky explains, blankly. “It kept coming back.”

Peggy feels ill to her stomach, and she refuses to follow up with any questions. 

Ultimately, if Bucky is expecting some sort of revelatory comment, all Peggy can offer is a well and hefty, “ _Good lord_ ,” to the entire scenario. 

Bucky makes a face. “Was kinda hoping for more advice than that.”

Peggy is genuinely surprised that he’s come to her. Surely something must have precipitated this tête-à-tête. “What happened between you two on the mission the other day?”

Bucky winces. “I may have… blown the op when I saw her in trouble. Didn’t stop to think about it, and to be perfectly frank,” he straightens, “I’m not as much sorry as I am shocked about how instinctive the reaction was. For so long, the mission was all I ever thought about. Nothing could overrule it.”

“That’s a good thing, Bucky,” she tells him. “But I imagine Nat didn’t appreciate the assist?”

“She says she had it covered, but okay, look, it didn’t look that way to me.”

Peggy holds back a wince. It must have been quite a disaster, if Natasha was so upset about it. “You’ve gone to Steve already, I assume?”

“Yeah, he was _real_ helpful. His main advice consisted of telling me not to kiss any other girls.”

She remembers Lorraine distinctly. “It’s not bad advice, all things considered. At least I fired at Steve while he was behind a shield. I’m fairly sure Natasha would consider that inefficient.”

He snorts, then closes his eyes, face upturned, like he’s beseeching the heavens for something. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

“Yes, well. I’m afraid that particular feeling never much changes with soulmarks.”

“Oh, that’s _great_ to hear.”

She pauses. “Do you… do you even want to be involved with Natasha? It’s not a forgone conclusion, physical intimacy. From what I’ve gathered from others, the soulmark is not always physical. It’s meant to be primarily… spiritual and mental, I suppose.”

Bucky gives her an incredulous look. “Like it’s that way with you and Steve?”

“This is not about my relationship with Steve,” she sidesteps neatly. “It’s about you and Natasha. No two soulmarks are alike. Do you know what you want from Natasha?”

He hesitates only briefly. “Yes,” he admits, tightly. “I want _her._ ”

Oh.

Well.

“And she?” Peggy ventures, carefully.

He scrubs a hand over his eyes. “Hell if I know.”

“You have to give it time,” Peggy tells him. “This soulbond, it’s unnerving even when you’re certain you’re in love. Even when you’ve committed yourself to it one hundred percent. You have to give yourself and each other the time to come to terms with what it means. It’s an evolving nature. You need to accept that.”

Peggy might be bright enough to accept her own advice, actually.

He slants her a glance, uneasily. “You think I should apologize to her about the mission?”

“Not if you don’t mean it. Disingenuous emotions will get you nowhere. She’ll see right through it. Natasha has had that gift even without the soulbond playing a factor.”

Peggy leaves out the bit where the soulbond will make even the slightest hints of emotions plain to both of them, even when one is trying one’s considerable best to hide them. 

“Bucky,” she tells him. “Just be patient. It’s not a race to the end. If she’s hesitating, just give her time to figure out what she wants.”

#

“It’s time,” Natasha answers, prepping the quinjet. “Everybody load up.”

Peggy nods, starting up the ramp, but Steve stops her.

“Are you sure you feel up to this?” Steve asks her, privately, for what feels like the dozenth time. “You still have a bit to go in recovery.”

“I feel well enough,” she tells him. “Steve, I can’t stay back anymore.”

“Coming through,” Tony hollers, marching up the ramp with a massive crate of equipment hoisted on the shoulders of his Iron Man suit.

Steve forces himself calm with a breath. “Just… be careful,” he tells Peggy, not wanting to cause a scene.

She kisses him softly. “I will. I promise.”

The ramp closes, the quinjet lifting off, and Peggy and Tony take their seats behind Natasha as she pilots the plane into the air. Peggy looks out the window, seeing Steve, Fury, Bucky, and her niece and nephew still standing at the platform in their wake. 

She casts one last look back at Tony’s opulent safehouse, not realizing it’ll be the last time she’ll see it and her people standing whole and in one piece. 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this chapter is absurdly long, I scooped out a bunch of stuff and will be posting it in a separate Bucky/Natasha one-shot (omg, the enemies-to-friends-to-lovers idea I have for them, *squeals*) that will explore a lot more of this chapter’s events. It’s a compromise I made with myself so this last chapter wouldn’t turn sprawling and unwieldly. There are apparently too many character interactions that I want to explore. Yeah.


	6. Chapter 6

#

Honestly, the roughest part of the _Lemurian Star_ mission is the flight to get there over choppy seas, which leaves Peggy with the cold-sweated reminder of her recent confrontation with Pierce and the horrendous stopover at the bottom of the ocean. Peggy doesn’t realize she’s making any outward signs of her distress, not until Tony, who’d hadn’t graced her with too many of his nonsensical and long-winded rantings lately, keeps her distracted on the flight with a running commentary of nothing and everything. It’s at this point that she realizes she’s gripping the chair of her arm so tightly her fingers have turned white. Natasha must see the specter of Peggy’s recent trauma, too, because she joins in with her custom default acerbity, playing off Tony’s commentary with ease and humor. 

When they finally get to the _Lemurian Star_ , between the three of them, overtaking the Shield _(Hydra)_ agents on board is handled quickly and easily. The most surprising issue is the presence of Sitwell on board, who eyes widen at Captain Britain still in action, who should be dead from all accounts. She flashes him only a look in passing and keeps walking to where Natasha and Tony are bypassing the computer security. For obvious reasons, Peggy leaves the hacking to individuals that weren’t born before the invention of computers. She keeps an eye out for potential threats while the others do their parts.

“The drive has a Level Six homing program,” Natasha suggests, “so if we take this outside and boot up, Shield will know exactly where we are. We should try to open it now, if we’ve got the time.”

“Shield will find you anyway,” Sitwell says from the back, calmly. “There’s no place you can run or hide.” 

The women disregard this, but Tony can never ignore the presence of any arrogance that threatens to outshine his own. “Tell me, Jeeves,” he asks Sitwell, “that whole _cut one head off and two others will appear_ bit, that only applies to the noggin, right? I mean, I’m not going to be facing any two-dick wielding assassins?”

“Stark,” Sitwell says. “I’ve seen your profile on Project Insight. I’ve seen _all_ of your profiles. And you know what it predicts about you, Stark? What phrase it used? Oh, yes. A suit of armor. _A suit of armor around the world_. That’s what you want your legacy to be. Well, that’s what we’re trying to do, too.”

Tony snorts. “Nice try, but my suit of armor doesn’t have programing to kill its host.”

“Tony,” Peggy cuts in. “He’s distracting you.”

She decides to march Sitwell and the others out of the command center, where they won’t be a further distraction. As she loads them into one of the storage rooms in the back, Sitwell tells her, “You have no idea how dangerous Tony Stark is, do you? You think he’s trying to protect the world. He doesn’t know the difference between protecting it and destroying it.”

Peggy doesn’t point out the irony of Hydra protecting Earth; she just slams the door shut on Sitwell’s face. By the time she returns to the command room, Tony is engrossed at the computer, where JARVIS is still running his scans and downloads. Natasha is on another console, looking curious at some files on screen. Peggy sees something about Sokovia, some profiles of officers and agents, and possibly a Hydra research base. 

“There’s more than just Project Insight on here,” Natasha tells Peggy, and pulls up a familiar image of a long staff with a bright blue stone. “I think I just found the location of Loki’s Scepter.”

That gets Tony’s interest. “We lost that thing ages ago.”

“Well, apparently not,” Natasha says. “It’s been with Shield – or Hydra – this entire time—”

The screen goes blank suddenly, but not because the power’s been cut. The rest of the ship’s lights are still on. 

“What just happened?” Peggy asks.

Natasha is quickly typing. “Someone’s fighting our access to the files.”

Tony’s eyes sweep passed all the information, already returning to his place a few feet away. “Huh,” he snorts. “The person who developed this programming thinks they’re very smart. It’s trying to fight my malware, so maybe, instead,” Tony does a few quick commands, “we can find out where it came from.” 

Peggy comes to stand next to Natasha, both watching Tony bringing up a map of the US, where it closes in on the east coast, and then further pinpointing to Wheaton, New Jersey. Peggy walks up to the screen to examine the location, and almost doesn’t believe her eyes. 

“I know that place,” Peggy tells them, shocked. 

#

“Camp Lehigh?” Steve says, over the radio. “You sure?”

“Positive,” Peggy replies. “We’re headed there right now.”

After a beat, Steve comes to a decision. “I’ll meet you there,” he says. “No one knows that place better than me.”

That makes sense. Following World War II, Camp Lehigh was transformed into one of the first Shield facilities. Steve had personally chosen it himself when he first became Deputy Director, then eventually the Director within five years after Phillips retired. He’s told Peggy enough of the stories about those early days.

By the time Natasha has piloted the quinjet back to the US, Steve is already waiting at Lehigh with Bucky. 

“Where is everyone else?” Peggy asks Steve.

“Carl is still back at the safehouse,” Steve answers. “I sent Fury and Sharon off to the west end of this camp, to make sure the weapons’ facility is empty. I didn’t think this place was still in use. I want to make sure Hydra isn’t storing missiles here.”

Peggy nods. She is well aware the camp is big enough to cover a small town. They have a lot of ground to cover. “We should spread out,” she says. 

Steve nods. “Bucky, take Natasha and search the east end.”

If either Natasha or Bucky have any protest to the division, they don’t show it. Bucky and Natasha take off in one direction, while Steve nods his head in the other. “This way. The old HQ is through here.” 

Steve leads Peggy and Tony to a hefty building disguised as an ammunition bunker, but Peggy looks around, frowning at the neighboring location of the barracks, a clear red flag, but doesn’t comment. Steve gets them through the front door, where surprisingly the building still has power, then pulls back a bookcase, which makes Tony say in an almost giddy tone, _“oh, please be a secret door, please be a secret door.”_ Steve types in a four-digit code into the security system, and she doubts Tony recognizes the sequence entered as the day and month Peggy went down in the Valkyrie, but Peggy certainly does. Steve flashes her a brief look, and his face would be impossible to read to anyone else, but Peggy can tell he knows she recognized the date. 

He pushes open the hidden passage door, which groans in protest and disuse. Inside, it’s like stepping back in time. The office has outdated and outmoded equipment, but it oddly feels more familiar to Peggy than some of the technology Tony uses. A cluster of old desks and chairs line the room on one end, withered with age and coated in dust. On the far wall, there’s a large old-fashioned insignia, an outline of an eagle with outstretched wings, the words _Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division_ charting the border. On the opposite wall, three sizeable picture frames adorn the space, crooked and coated with dust. Chester Phillips, Howard Stark, and Steve Rogers. The original founders of Shield.

Peggy can picture it so clearly, it feels like an apparition appearing right before her eyes. The place bustling with energy. The chatter of agents as they moved through the space. Steve in the front office, youthful and sturdy, coming out with his sleeves rolled up, ready to take on the day. Arguing with Howard over the use of his toys. Phillips, no-nonsense and weary, barking orders at everyone. Steve, though, he wouldn’t have barked orders. He would have commanded the respect and attention of everyone in the room, rallying the agents to set them on their tasks with a modest but firm authority. Peggy feels pride expand in her chest, standing in this room, but something else too, something a tad grief-stricken and painful for a life she never got to live.

She wonders, briefly, what her role would have been like if she’d never gone down in the plane. Would she have become a vital part of Shield? 

Before the thought can take hold and gallop away, Tony comes to stand beside her, staring up at the picture of Howard’s face. She can see misapprehension and an old ache in Tony’s eyes, and Peggy wants to say something to him, wants to offer comfort, but this moment isn’t for her to interrupt.

Peggy’s eyes drift over to where Steve is walking through the room, looking like a man seeing ghosts, ones more haunting than anything Peggy can conjure up. He stares too long and too still at the room around him. The place must be filled with so many memories for Steve. 

No one breathes a word for the first few minutes, not even Tony. The entire place makes them all feel guarded, for differing reasons.

“This way,” Tony eventually says, tapping something on his wrist. He recites a readout. “Ten meters, southeast.”

They come across a back room, filled with a hub of computers, neither as antique as the forties or anything close to being modern. 

“This can’t be the data point,” Tony said. “The technology is ancient.”

But at the side, Peggy notices a small flash drive port. She trades a look with both Steve and Tony, but Tony is the one to move forward, replacing the flash drive port with a small device of his own. Slowly, the ancient computer activates, a soft whirling sound emitting throughout the room as everything starts up. Tony types a quick command to initiate the system, and the screens all turn staticky. 

The computer voice comes on, garbled and foreign. “Rogers, Steven. Born, 1918. Stark, Anthony. Born, 1970. Carter, Margaret. Born, 1921.” 

Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Hello, HAL. Do you read me?”

Peggy doesn’t get the reference, but she’s too distracted by the cameras all coming online, quickly swiveling to monitor them, shifting focus from one to another. 

“Is someone watching us?” Peggy asks. “From where?”

“From here, fräulein,” the computer answers, and the screen shows an old photo of a familiar, wretched man. Dr. Arnim Zola. “I may not be the man I was when Captain America took me prisoner in 1945, but I trust you recognize me the same.” 

Tony looks to them both. “You two know this thing?”

Steve steps forward, lips pressed into a thin line. “Arnim Zola was a German scientist who worked for the Red Skull. He's been dead for years.”

“First correction,” Zola’s voice comes on, thick ancient haughty. “I am Swiss. Second, look around you. I have never been more alive.”

“You died,” Steve replies, hard-edged. “In 1972. I saw your body.”

“I received a terminal diagnosis, yes. Science could not save my body. My mind, however, that was worth saving on two hundred thousand feet of data banks. You are standing in my brain.”

“How?” Peggy breathes out, sickened. 

“Invited, of course,” Zola answers. 

Steve looks furious, and shamed. “Operation Paperclip after World War II. Shield recruited German scientists with strategic value. Over my objections.”

“They thought I could help their cause,” Zola clarifies. “I also helped my own. Accessing archives.” The computer screen flips through a montage of old footage, from Johann Schmidt and his odious Red Skull persona, to pictures of all the original SHIELD founders. “HYDRA was founded on the belief that humanity could not be trusted with its own freedom. What we did not realize, was that if you try to take that freedom, they resist. The war taught us much. Humanity needed to surrender its freedom willingly. After the war, SHIELD was founded and I was recruited. The new HYDRA grew. A beautiful parasite inside SHIELD. For seventy years HYDRA has been secretly feeding crisis, reaping war. And when history did not cooperate, history was changed.”

It isn’t anything they don’t already know from Bucky’s intelligence. Still, she can feel the fury and ignobility building in Steve’s shoulders, the disgrace almost overwhelming as Zola brings up further pictures and files. Both Steve and Tony look stricken as the monitors runs through articles charting Howard and Maria Stark’s death, the next image a blurry picture of the Winter Soldier standing beside their demolished vehicle. 

It quickly moves on, a litany of Hydra’s successes. 

A cold horror washes over the room as it plays out, as Zola narrates Hydra’s rise over the decades, managing to rebuild much of its former strength. Secretly feeding crises around the globe, from the creation of terrorist’s threats, wars, famine, the uprising of dictators. The creation of Tesseract-powered weaponry. More super-soldier programs. Peggy thinks she catches a glimpse of her brother, Michael Carter, but the images move so fast and horrifically, she can hardly keep up.

They stand there in growing discord as Zola outlines the damning case of Hydra’s infiltration into Shield, until Steve has enough and explodes, grabbing the shield off Peggy’s back, and flinging the disc into a perfect arc, straight into Zola’s main monitor.

There’s a brief pause, and Zola’s face replaces all the other monitors, smiling.

“What do you want?” Steve barks.

“Project Insight requires insight,” Zola answers. “So, I wrote an algorithm.”

“It’ll never launch,” Steve promises. “We won’t allow it.”

“You refer to the worm Nicholas Fury embedded in my system?” Zola taunts. “I found it as soon as it was planted. It will not do a thing to stop Project Insight. You all have interfered enough.”

Off to the side, Tony snorts. “Oh, that’s adorable. I haven’t even begun to cause problems. And you think I’d trust a Shield-issued worm? Those people can’t even keep me out of their system, I wouldn’t trust them to hack anything else.”

“Ah, Tony Stark,” Zola replies. “Your profile was quite inspirational for me to explore. I wonder if you have any idea what you will reap unto the world, if left to your own devices.”

“I wonder,” Tony retorts, “if you have any idea what I was reaping while you were giving the Bad Guy Speech of the Century.”

The monitors blimp in and out, staticky for a moment, and when Zola comes back on, he looks startled. “No, no! What are you doing?” 

“Zola, was it?” Tony says, gleefully. “Meet a friend of mine, JARVIS.”

“Sir,” JARVIS’ voice comes on, emanating from Tony’s suit. “I am overriding his directives, but he is proving combative.”

“Destroy his cute little algorithm,” Tony instructs. “Download whatever files you can, especially on all Hydra operative identities. Embed malware into Project Oversight and run it into the ground.”

“Sir,” JARVIS replies, as crisp as a nod.

Peggy watches, stunned, as some internal battle of wits and intelligence plays out between Zola and JARVIS. The monitors flash brightly, as Zola struggles to maintain control, and then there is a cackle of laughter throughout the speakers. 

“Sir,” JARVIS returns, sounding distressed. “I’m afraid he’s infiltrated my defenses as well. He’s learned the locations of both your current safehouses. He’s taking immediate offensive maneuvers.”

Tony’s eyes widen in alarm. “Pepper,” he breathes out, sickened. 

Tony takes off without missing a second, firing off a small mortar into the roof of the underground facility, flying his way up through the hole. Steve and Peggy exchange a look between them, knowing that their nephew is in the remaining safehouse. 

Peggy hardens her voice, coming to several conclusions at once, turning to her comms. “Sharon, Fury, get back to the safehouse now. Get Carl—”

“I would love to see the looks on your faces,” Zola declares, “when you see the dead bodies of your loved ones, but it does not matter. You will not live long enough to see it.”

Over the comms, Natasha’s voice comes on, alarmed. “Guys, we got a bogey. Short range ballistic. 30 seconds tops.”

“Who sent it?” Steve demands.

“Shield,” Natasha answers.

“I am afraid I have been stalling, Director,” Zola tells Steve, and the monitor’s beady eyes shift to Peggy. “And you cannot save everyone with your shield, Captain Britain. Admit it, it is better this way. We are all of three of us relics of a bygone era.”

Steve sees a large grate in the floor and rushes over to rip off the cover. Peggy can already hear the whirl of the incoming bogie. _“Peggy!”_ Steve shouts, jumping down into the grate and holding aloft a hand for her to take. Peggy grabs her shield from where it’s lodged in the broken monitor. Just as the place explodes, she throws herself on top of Steve, diving into the large grate, protecting them both with her shield as the entire building caves in.

The concrete hits her shield and body like a grenade going off, and Peggy can feel the strain of it bearing down. Even if she hadn’t recently been recovering from a near-death injury, an entire ammunition depo falling down on top of her would have been enough to cause her strain. She holds herself aloft over Steve, staring at the startled blueness of his eyes as he takes in her position over him. Tears stream down her face, teeth gritted with pain. 

After the dust has settled, he helps her half-throw and half-heave the rubble off her back, his screaming feeling more like frustration than pain. 

Afterwards, he catches Peggy as she collapses and she immediately knows her shoulder, at the very least, is dislocated. Together, they drag themselves out of the wreckage. She can hear Bucky and Natasha screaming their names in the distance, climbing over rubble in their search. Peggy wants to scream too, and she’s not sure if it’s more her or Steve, but she can feel a storm building inside. Fear, indignation – _anger_. 

“Get the others,” Steve says, face ashen white with dust. 

#

The ride in the quinjet is somber. Peggy takes a moment to rest after Steve pops her shoulder back into place, then he leaves to get a sit-rep on everyone else. Tony managed to reach Pepper’s safehouse moments before the place blew up from another one of Shield’s missiles, but he’s going dark and will only reach out again through an agreed-upon means when he knows Pepper is secure. Steve also checks in with Sharon and Fury, who tells him the safehouse housing Carl has also met the same fate, but they’re searching the rubble quickly before a Shield team will undoubtably show up. 

They wait for news. Natasha lands the jet in a field of poppies. They march an hour into a nearby town, and find a no-tell motel. Steve deposits Peggy gingerly on the mattress, and she sags with relief. He grabs the radio and leaves for fresh air in the back terrace, and Peggy sits there in the quiet and darkness, and waits. 

She feels it, rather than overhears it. The moment Steve is on the radio, getting an update from Sharon. If she focuses hard enough, she could probably hear Sharon’s grief-filled sob and the exact words used to convey the news. Peggy doesn’t – _focus,_ that is. She feels numb, and tired, and numb again. It feels like she’s losing time, or maybe she just hit her head in the wreckage. Things are blurry around the edges, and Peggy sits there on the sagging mattress, finally hearing Steve’s approaching footsteps. His hand is gentle on her shoulder as he crouches down before her, eyes level with hers. 

(Peggy would find out later, once her nephew’s body has been removed from the rubble, after Fury has managed to get Sharon clear of the wailing sirens and the STRIKE team, that Carl shouldn’t have even been in the safehouse at the time of the bombing; he had meant to run an errand to gather more supplies, but had decided against it last second, in case anyone from the mission came back injured. It was one of those tragedies that had nearly never happened.)

Steve’s soft voice drifts in, brokenly, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

#

They end up a pile of limbs above the covers, still fully clothed, still dirty and ashen from debris. Steve’s emotions pour through the soulbond, feeling more real to Peggy than her own. She supposes that’s right, after all. She may have been Carl’s blood relative, but Steve was more family to him than her. She had kept Carl at a distance, kept both her niece and nephew at a distance. Now, it’s probably in poor taste for her to mourn his death, but in poor taste or not, the distinct sting of loss hits her like a bullet. (And she would know what that feels like.)

“How is Sharon?” she asks.

Steve sighs. “As well as you’d expect, but she’s trying to recover behind a stiff upper lip. I wonder which side of the family she gets that from. Fury will keep an eye on her.”

Any other time, Peggy would have commented on the unintended pun.

She rests her head on his chest, fingers splayed out across his shirt, absently flicking the buttons until Steve stills her hands in his broader ones. His hands have always been such beautiful, utterly masculine things, even pre-serum. Long, graceful, but strong lines full of beautiful strength. She doesn’t think she’s ever told Steve that, how much she loves his hands, but by the way she frequently plays with them, she doesn’t think he’s unaware of it either. She can feel his steady heartbeat against her ear, each inhale and exhale that he takes, and it is one of the few comforts she has. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers to her.

She lifts her head to look at him. “For what?”

“Hydra infiltrated Shield and it happened on my watch,” he tells her. “And now Carl is—I used to believe in what I did. I used to believe I had a purpose. Now I don’t know. I feel like I put my faith in all the wrong things, and the whole world is going to pay for it.”

“Steve, no,” Peggy insists. “I won’t try to curtail your sense of responsibility because I know it’s entirely futile, but do not disrespect me by apologizing for the death of a man you’d have died yourself to save.” Peggy pauses. She’s always known how to get the best reaction out of him, how to make him react the way she wants him to, and she uses that to her advantage now. “Do you trust me?”

He looks up, startled by the question. “What?”

“Do you trust me?”

“Of course, I do. I could doubt everything else, but not that.”

“Well, unless I’m fooling myself, if I hadn’t crashed that plane, I likely would have been right beside you as SHIELD was erected. I don’t know if I would have, or _could_ have, seen anything you would have missed. This threat of Hydra was more insidious than either of us could have imagined. If you can’t believe in yourself, then trust in me. For I have faith in you enough for the both of us, my darling.”

He shakes his head at her. “Tony’s right, you know? I don’t deserve such confidence.”

“You think it’s because of the soulbond that I feel this way? It’s your devotion to people, Steve, your ability to lead and strive for the good of the people. I will always have faith in you for that. I trust you like I trust in gravity.”

“Peg…” This time, he sounds overwhelmed and slightly awed of her.

She presses a hand to his jaw, gentle but firm. “So, I am not going to condemn you for this perceived sin of yours. What I will do, however, is help you _wage war_. Hydra is at fault for Carl’s death. Armor yourself with that.” 

He opens his mouth, to say what, she isn’t sure, when a rattle at the door alerts Peggy to visitors. They both rise quickly, but Bucky has a spare key to their room and apparently feels no shame in utilizing it without so much as a _by-your-leave_. Natasha enters after him, carrying paper bags full of fragrant fast food. 

"Shove over,” Bucky tells Peggy, ignoring her noise of protest as he spreads out the obnoxious food onto the coverlet. "Eat up," Bucky exhorts, handing her some food. "We don’t know when we’ll get our next break."

Peggy might have protested more, but she quickly realizes that even if she doesn’t feel like being managed, Steve deserves a bit of care. She places a wrapped hamburger in front of him, along with napkins, and forces herself to eat if only to encourage Steve to match her actions. She is almost one hundred percent certain that he is doing the exact same thing for her. 

“I would have brought alcohol, too,” Natasha adds, dragging an armchair from the corner of the room to the edge of the bed. “But with this crowd, it’s mostly useless.”

Natasha props her foot up against the mattress with her shoes on. Peggy would protest, but she’s already made a mess of everything with Steve with their dirty clothes, so it hardly matters. She’ll have to leave a hefty tip for the maids for all the inconvenience. 

They eat in silence, mechanically. They all do, but it is a must, especially after a day like today.

“We need to regroup,” Steve eventually says.

Natasha says, “McDonalds was as much about the food as for the free wifi, better than this shithole motel anyway.” Then, with far more casualness than the news deserves, “I got through to Tony, finally. JARVIS was able to get the list of Hydra agents from Zola’s mainframe. The number is… high. Very high. JARVIS also crippled the Project Insight algorithm. Pierce will be scrambling to get things back in order, but if we want to take things out, our window is closing.”

Natasha is right, of course, as she usually is. As much as Peggy feels even an afternoon should be given to mourn, they don’t have the luxury. They don’t have the time.

“One thing I know for certain,” Peggy says, resolutely. “I want to look Alexander Pierce in the eye when we take him down.”

No one can argue with that.

“How do you want to do this?” Bucky asks, directed at Steve. 

“I have to make a few calls,” Steve says, wiping his face with a napkin, settling back against the headboard. “If we know who is loyal to Hydra, we’re gonna need all hands-on-deck to separate them from the good guys. Fury and I will coordinate setting up teams to collect Hydra spies.”

Peggy trades a look with Steve. “It’s time we brought in the rest of the Avengers.”

Steve nods in agreement.

“I can reach Clint and Bruce,” Natasha says, “But Thor is a bit out of range for communication. We need a Shield facility to have the power and equipment to reach Asgard.”

“Tony can handle that,” Steve replies, starting to look galvanized. “We need the Avengers to regroup for a rendezvous. Fury and I will get your support teams lined up. It won’t be insignificant.”

“It can’t be,” Peggy replies. “It sounds like we have too many names to cross off the list.”

Steve nods. “In the meantime, we need to start combing through the data.” He turns to them, one by one. “Natasha, I want you gathering information on the targets of highest value on the east coast. Maria can help you locate any inside the Triskelion. Bucky, you’ll handle the west coast HVTs. Peggy and I will run a sweep through any in the Midwest and south. We need to go in strong, at once, hit them with the blunt side of Shield. One we’ve round up everyone, we’ll sort out the mess later on. Our first priority is capture and contain.”

#

The rest is hardly easy, and it isn’t quick, but it is surprisingly more about efficiency than it is violence for a journey that begun so perilously. The Avengers assemble, as expected, leading groups of trusted agents into the field – mostly, into Shield’s own offices – clearing threats and handcuffing men and women that had sworn an oath to protect and serve. It hadn’t taken as long as Peggy expected to coordinate everything, but it takes some doing, contacting the right people. Rhodey cuts through a lot of the red tape for them, but the Secretary of State, Thaddeus Ross, takes some convincing. When they finally have enough manpower, the target takedowns are coordinated to the same date and time. 

Some escape, going underground, but the majority are captured. An incalculable number will likely seek deals, pursuing clemency for their crimes – like Zola had done. It’s another lesson in Peggy’s education in the art of war, because she’s been through World War II, and then another fashion of warfare these last few years fighting as Captain Britain. She is hardly a novice in fighting, but this lesson feels particularly abrasive, seeing men and women Peggy knew, Peggy _trusted_ to fight alongside her. To see them for their true colors is a wake-up call.

It isn’t just top tier Shield officials or low-level agents. Senators and Congressman, businessmen with Fortune 500 hundred companies, Wall Street goons, judges, policeman, Federal agents of nearly every branch, even the Secretary of Defense (a woman Peggy had admired).

Peggy, of course, is given her favored target. 

When it comes time, she deploys her motorcycle from the quinjet in mid-air, through the deck doors that bifurcate the floor. She drops onto the vacant road with a bounce and then rides at swift speed. Up ahead, Pierce’s convoy has just left his hideaway. In the end, despite a few dramatic moments that require Peggy to weave under a semi-truck to launch her shield at the tires of one of Pierce’s SUVs, and another moment where Peggy launches her _entire_ motorcycle at the windshield, tossing the bike over her head as handedly as a grenade, she halts the convoy without fatalities.

When she drags Pierce out from the wreckage, he coughs and just sits there on the ground, unsurprised and resigned. “You think today is a victory,” he says. 

It is a statement, not a question.

“I think,” Peggy clarifies, “there are no winners in a war that’s dragged on for nearly a century. But your time has come to an end, Alex, and I will not lie. I consider that, at the very least, a small victory.”

Pierce shakes his head, dirt and blood griming his face. “Don’t sell yourself short. But you don’t understand, yet, what you’ve done. To you, Hydra is Red Skull’s creation, a mad man’s pursuit of glory in his own name. That wasn’t my vision. I simply understood the hard fact that sometimes you may hurt the things you love in order to provide for the greater good. But I never enjoyed the process. I never received any satisfaction in causing pain.”

She thinks of Carl’s death. She thinks of Bucky’s torture. She thinks of all those people he’s destroyed to protect himself and Hydra, either by manipulation or assassination. She thinks of all those people he would have slaughtered with Project Insight. 

“Genocide, Alex. You and Red Skull both went about your ways in the exact same manner. I don’t care about your intentions.”

“Then care about the fact that today, in this victory of yours, you’ve likely condemned the whole world to die. Watch yourself, Peggy. Watch your precious Avengers, Earth’s so-called saviors. You’ll be the death of everyone on Earth, mark my words.”

Peggy shakes her head, pitying. “What are you on about?”

“Maybe you should have read some of your team’s profiles before you corrupted the Project Insight’s algorithm. You might have found it illuminating. Especially the one on Tony Stark.”

"If you’re not comfortable with admitting defeat, however small, then say so. But to sit there in some huddled mess and claim an ominous, vague threat to my team from within,” Peggy sighs. “honestly, I thought you were at least above that.”

He smiles, and it is a gentle smile, as if they’re old friends and not some perverted version of enemies who happen to know what the other kissed like. “I’m glad it’s you here, rather than the others.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

“Did he send you to me?” Pierce asks. “Your soulbond? Or did you volunteer?”

“For the chance to capture you?” Peggy replies, securing her shield behind her back. “I happily volunteered. Insisted on it, really.”

“No, not that.” He stares up at her, curiously. “The date. Did he send you to me?”

Peggy doesn’t answer, which is, of course, an answer in itself.

“To put someone you love through such a thing, for the greater good,” Pierce says. “Steve Rogers and I have more in common than I thought.”

With that parting shot, he bites something, grimacing, and by the time Peggy realizes he’s swallowed cyanide hidden behind a tooth, he is already dead with foam dribbling out of his mouth.

#


	7. Epilogue

#

The noise and commotion of the Senate hearing is starting to get to Peggy by the time the afternoon session is called to order. She takes a medicinal sip of her ice-cold glass of water, and exchanges a quiet look with Natasha over her shoulder. The other woman is wearing a tasteful black suit and skirt, artfully poised for the cameras as the reporters snap what could only be the _thousandth_ picture of them sitting poised for senators’ questionings. The Senator in front of them now, a man named Crispin (Senator Brandt’s grandson, actually, through his daughter’s side), is all triumph and bluster, spouting a resounding litany of charges against Shield and the Avengers. Halfway through, Peggy is sure he must be in love with the sound of his own voice.

From her spot behind the center table, Peggy answers question after question under sworn testimony over her actions in the past several months. From Hydra’s discovery, Bucky’s involvement, Pierce’s allegiances, Zola’s programming, the intent and destruction of Project Insight, to everything in between and until the coordinated takedown of over eight thousand, six hundred and forty-eight known Hydra intelligence officers. The violence that ensued during the contain-and-capture phase resulted in nearly a hundred and sixty-seven million dollars’ worth of property damage, most of it on government property. There were forty-six deaths and counting, half of which were loyal Shield agents. Twelve had been collateral civilian casualties, simply at the wrong place and the wrong time.

The only place where Peggy omits the truth, or fails to tell the full truth, comes down to two and only two things: Steve’s death and Bucky’s current whereabouts. For the former, she slips out of confessing his fake assassination by a series of tactics. She answers a simple yes to: _‘So, during Steve Roger’s funeral, you were already aware of Pierce’s alliance with Hydra?_ ’ When asked to recount Steve’s assassination, she fakes a stammer, eyes growing moist, and replies: ‘ _I knew I was destined to become a widow after the second bullet hit, of course. I had the cremated ashes in my hands the following week. What more do you need to know?_ ’ As for the latter, she claims ignorance, a true fact, as she doesn’t know where Bucky is presently, if only to maintain her plausible deniability. 

The morning questions bleed into the afternoon, and Peggy’s voice is starting to go parched and fatigued. Tony should have been there by now, but true to form, he’s taken the subpoena summons as more of a recommendation than any type of mandate. Natasha has yet to grace the oath, but Peggy can tell as the day wears on that her redheaded friend is getting more and more anxious just for this entire charade to be over.

“What I don’t understand,” Senator Crispin says, his eyes on several documents in front of him, “is how you knew about Hydra’s involvement for months, and told no one.”

“There was a matter of trust,” Peggy answers sharply, nerves wearing thin after answering the same question for at least the sixth time. It seems every Senator wants his chance at snapping headlines from today’s circus. “We conducted our own investigation because the potential subjects of inquiry ranged from fellow Shield agents to Senators that, not until a few weeks ago, sat beside you on that bench."

There’s the sound of awkward shuffling, as no less than eight Senators have been implicated in the Hydra files, two of which once sat upon the Senate Intelligence Committee, the very one questioning Peggy. 

“You still took unilateral, dangerous actions,” Crispin says.

“As an Agent of Shield and a member of the Avengers, I took the necessary steps I deemed prudent to handle the situation. Since the threat was so insidious, I attempted to limit the fallout. The less people involved, the less potential there was for a leak or a traitor.”

“You thought you should keep this information to a select few,” Crispin answers, then incredulous, “including your fellow compatriot, Iron Man? Tony Stark was a man you thought was fit for this task? A man you consider trustworthy? He’s showboating right now, just by flagrantly disregarding his subpoena.”

“Are you asking me about the qualities of a man like Tony Stark? He can be thoughtless. Arrogant. Vain. Childish.” She meets the Senator’s conceited gaze head-on, adding, “And still, I trust in his integrity implicitly. I trust him far beyond the measures of most others.”

He shakes his head, exasperated. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m under oath, am I not?”

Sighing, Crispin redirects his questioning. “Who gave you the authority to start this manhunt?” 

“In the beginning,” Peggy answers, “it was the Director of Shield, Steve Rogers. Then it was his successor, Nicholas Fury.”

Crispin sighs. “How do we know the Hydra files you’ve handed us aren’t tainted by you, or by them?”

Peggy stills. “Is that an allegation of some kind?”

“Should it be? All of Shield seems to be in disarray as we sort out traitors from spies. How are we to know this evidence you’ve provided us isn’t as tainted as everything else? How are we to know that your late soulbond isn’t just as dirty as Alexander Pierce?”

The words echo Pierce’s last dying words, and Peggy sees red – _blinding, infuriating red._

She overhears Natasha mutter _shit_ under her breath, shifting uncomfortably. 

Then Peggy is leaning forward, into the microphone, intent on making her words resound clear and articulate throughout the chamber. “I think you're a man out for his own fifteen minutes of fame, Senator. Otherwise you wouldn’t be questioning the character and integrity of Steve Rogers. You're hoping for a soundbite, for a moment to crow from your podium that you’ve uncovered some other slithering snake from this horrible mess. But Steve Rogers dedicated his mind, his body, his life to the SSR, then to Shield, and at every point in his life, to this country. He made a pledge to protect and serve the people, and it has been upheld at every turn, through World War II, through the Cold War, through battles and treacherous threats you could never even envision. I recommend you remember that before you make baseless accusations against an honorable man that has proven himself time and again.”

Crispin looks like he wants to shrink into his seat, but then straightens abruptly. “Yes, well, of course you’d say that. Given who you are to him.”

Peggy’s eyes narrow. “I believe I’ve answered all the questions necessary today. You have all the information in front of you, and I’ve answered each question at least half a dozen times. I’m through here.”

She stands up, ignoring the sudden clamor of the room, turning around to exit through the back. Natasha steps into line behind her, smoothing her face into a blank mask as cameras pop off at the pair exiting. Peggy ignores Senator Crispin as he bangs his gavel, trying to get her attention, calling her back, reminding her the session isn’t over. The place explodes into a frenzy, but Peggy keeps moving.

#

They don’t make it that far, although Peggy’s intentions had been to leave the building entirely. Outside, the press is going berserk, so Natasha pulls Peggy into one of the corner empty rooms normally reserved for Congressman aids, and shuts the door. There’s only a handful of other people that still need to take their testimony, including Natasha – and Tony, if he ever decides to make his presence known. All they needed to do was to keep to the script, echo the same answers, which should have been easy enough given it’s the truth. Somehow, Peggy had managed to make it into a spectacle anyway. 

For a brief moment, Peggy regrets that.

Then Natasha flashes half-a-grin. “That was worth the price of admission alone.”

“Yes, well,” Peggy says, feeling herself breathe for the first time all day. “At least I managed to avoid using vulgar language.”

“I’d say you passed muster,” Natasha answers. “Tomorrow’s headlines will likely bolster stories about Senator Crispin going after a grieving widow and getting his ass handed to him on a platter. But what happened up there? You kept your cool the entire time, but when he made the accusation against Steve, your mind went somewhere.”

Peggy pauses, then looks away. “Pierce said something similar when he died. I never got the chance to respond to him.”

There is a beat of silence. 

Natasha looks more contemplative then anything. “Is it always like that?” 

“What?”

“The urge to defend?” Natasha questions. “The urge to protect… your soulbond?”

Peggy suspects they’re not talking about Steve anymore. “Not quite so prevalent, but at times, yes. I’ve never well-handled anyone questioning my integrity or Steve’s character. Today was just… a bit to take in.”

Natasha nods, looking thoughtful.

“You know you can talk to me,” Peggy volunteers. “About anything.”

“Maybe,” Natasha answers. “One day. This whole soulbond thing…” she glances away, then squares her jaw, “it’s confusing, but it answers a lot of lingering questions.”

“Like what?”

“My strength and agility, for instance. I always thought it was something done to me in the Red Room. I… can’t remember a lot of my childhood, but what I could didn’t make a lot of sense. I’m… _older_ than most people think.”

Peggy hesitates. “How old?”

“Old,” Natasha answers, coyly. “And it turns out, it’s because I was sharing something with James. I think that’s why I attracted the attention of the Red Room in the first place. They must have known about the soulbond from a young age. I suppose I never had a chance.”

There’s so much to unpack in that statement, Peggy doesn’t know where to begin. 

Sensing the unease in Natasha’s stance, Peggy decides to defuse the situation. “James?” she repeats. “I’ve never heard anyone actually call him by his given name.”

It works. Natasha smirks. “I know. It drives him insane.”

The side door opens, and Sharon enters the room quickly, closing the door on a mob of rambunctious reporters. “Well, good news, bad news,” Sharon announces. “The rest of Aunt Peggy’s session is formally adjourned, with no callback for her to return tomorrow. I think she’s out of the woods. Unfortunately, Nat, you’re being called up next. They want to begin immediately.”

“Well,” Natasha says, as she straightens. “I’m gonna have to think of a way to top Peggy’s exit.”

Peggy is sure Natasha will think of something. 

Natasha leaves, and Sharon says, “I won’t be the first to say this to you, and I doubt I’ll be the last.” Sharon smiles. “But you and Uncle Steve – you two really are made for each other. Peas in a pod.”

Peggy laughs. “It’s easier, these days, believe it or not. I’m not sure my mannerisms would have been quite as acceptable in the forties. Not that it would have stopped me any.”

“Carl and I always asked about that, you know,” Sharon says, a bit sadly. “When we got older, we always wondered how you managed diplomacy and espionage at a time when no one wanted to see a woman succeed at either.”

Peggy pauses, careful to be delicate and thoughtful at the slightest of mentions of her nephew. Sharon has been handling it better, especially since the small funeral, attended to by an odd hodgepodge of Carl’s closest friends and the full company of the Avengers. Since then, Peggy has been taking great pains to be there in any way she can for her niece. 

So, Peggy decides to give the question the consideration it deserves. “You compromise where you can, yes, but where you can't, _don't._ Even if everyone is telling you that something wrong is something right. Even if the whole world is telling you to move, it is your duty to plant yourself like a tree, look them in the eye, and say 'No, you move'.”

Sharon shakes her head, and smiles, proud. “Like I said, peas in a pod.”

#

Peggy decides to make her great escape once Tony appears, using the spectacle of his arrival to overshadow her departure. She exits the building to the eager masses, and the press can’t figure out which way to point their cameras, at Peggy stepping down the steps or at Tony emerging from the backseat of a limousine. 

“You’re late,” she tells him.

Tony stops halfway up the steps. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was thoughtless. Or was it arrogant?”

“Don’t forget vain and childish,” Peggy reminds him.

Tony grins widely, an unabashed sparkle in his eyes. “And for that, you should really take my ride. Booked the limo for another hour as a Groupon discount. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Tony kisses her on the cheek, and makes the rest of his way up the stairs, where he turns around, holds his arms wide and allows the paparazzi to surround and adore him. Peggy shakes her head, and quickly descends the last few steps and climbs into the backseat of the awaiting limo. The tinted windows are a blessing, but it’s the same reason she’s so surprised to find the car full, with Fury and Bucky on one side, and Steve on the other.

She’s grateful to see Fury and Bucky, of course, but she hasn’t seen Steve in weeks and her priorities are obvious. She climbs fully in, closing the door, and immediately entreats Steve’s lips to her own, happily surprised and unmindful of the company. They’ve never been one for public displays of affection. In fact, she’s fairly sure despite both of their lives having played out in the public eye to one extreme or another, there isn’t a single picture of them kissing. At first, there had been a war on. Then she’d been lost in the ocean. Then she’d awoken, and they’d been so distant. When they finally got back together again, it had been _after_ attending his funeral. 

Peggy pulls back, wipes her lipstick off Steve’s lips, then sits down next to him, taking his hand. He squeezes her hand back tightly, a little pink stained in the cheeks, but very pleased. She finally turns back to Bucky and Fury, who both have looked discreetly away, although with a bit of exasperation and amusement. 

“Gentlemen,” she greets, as the car starts moving. 

“What?” Bucky says, teasing. “Where’s my kiss hello?”

Fury rolls his eye. “As amusing as this is, we don’t have time. I’ve got a plane to catch, and I was wondering if you’d care to join me, Captain Britain.”

Officially, she is still no longer Captain Britain. There’s a wristwatch with Tony’s nanotechnology that will allow her to continue to fight without drawing undue attention and questions, especially given everyone still thinks Steve is dead. Except Peggy hasn’t utilized it yet, and she feels odd even thinking about it.

“Where are you headed towards?” she asks Fury.

“Sokovia,” Fury answers. “We raided the Hydra base in the hopes of regaining Loki’s Scepter, but we were too late. Still, there’s a lot of data in the system, and files. Files about human experimentation.”

Her eyes slid to Bucky. “You’re going with?”

Bucky nods. “Figured if it’s Hydra experimenting on humans, I’d know what to look out for.”

That is likely an understatement. 

“You’re welcome to join us,” Fury replies. “It’ll be a small group right now. Maria,” he nods up at the driver, which Peggy is unsurprised to discover is the woman in question, “myself, a few other civilians with more free time on our hands than we know what to do with.”

Of course. Shield doesn’t officially exist anymore.

She looks over at Steve, and sees he’s clearly going to leave it up to her. If she joins, likely he’s in, too. But she remembers his words all those months ago, when they’d first been reconnecting. “ _I want to leave it all behind – Shield, the political hustle, the constant battles. I only want… you, if you’ll have me. I only want a piece of that good life that everybody always told me about, that I never got to live myself.”_ It had sounded perfect to her then, and it still sounds perfect to her now.

“Apologies, gentlemen,” she says. “My dance card is full.”

Bucky smiles back at her knowingly, Fury accepts the answer with a gracious nod of his head, but it’s Steve’s grip on her hand, tightening ever so slightly, the subtle wave of relief coursing over the bond, that makes Peggy’s chest expand with the knowledge that she’s made the right decision. 

“You change your mind,” Fury says, “you know how to reach me.”

“Actually, I don’t,” Peggy says.

“Well, then,” he returns, eyebrow lifting. “I know how to reach you, so it all works out.”

The car pulls up to a small airstrip, where Maria announces the plane is already waiting for them. Fury and Bucky leave, exchanging quick farewells as they exit the cab. Up front, Maria tosses Peggy the keys through the open partition glass, cheekily telling her to fill the gas up. The driver’s door slams shut, and Peggy and Steve watch for a moment, as the group trudges onto the plane.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join them?” Steve asks, soberly.

She’s not saying no, forever. She’s not sure she could stand being a civilian, whatever that entails, for long. She is sure, however, that there is no pending global crisis that demands her attention, at least for the moment. That is a rare reprieve, and she plans on taking full advantage.

“I’m sure,” Peggy answers, and decides to take advantage of something else too.

She wraps a hand around his tie, tugging, and sets her mouth to his. Steve eagerly greets her kiss, because it has been weeks of pretending that she is still his widow, and it’s necessary, of course, if Steve wants any bit of peace, but already they’ve both grown rather tired of this whole charade and it’s only just begun. 

Still, there are ways to disperse the frustration. 

“Did you miss me?” she teases in between kisses, like she doesn’t already know the answer. 

“Peggy,” he tells her, lips smeared again with her lipstick, sounding strained. “Watching you on television today…” he makes a soft agitated noise that might sound like a protest, but really, really _isn’t._

“Oh, yes,” she says, shifting onto his lap, “I suppose you heard what I said, did you? Yes, I suppose a thing like that would go to your _head,_ ” she emphasizes the word by pressing herself against him, feeling him hardening underneath her. “Whatever shall I do about that?”

“Whatever you want,” he tells her.

“Oh, is that right? I was feeling famished earlier. A late lunch might—”

“Sure, Peg,” he tells her, unabashed. “Your choice. Sweet, salty – or me.”

He smiles up at her, looking brazen and utterly, transcendently in love – and finally silences her entirely with a kiss. His fingers are strong and familiar as he urges her up and properly onto his lap. Steve reaches for the buttons of her coat, revealing a white blouse underneath and – appropriately enough – a dark knee-length skirt. His hand slides possessively around to the back of her knees, pulling her legs apart as she situates herself on top of him, an unspoken entreaty. She toes off her shoes, and he hooks a finger under her panties and slowly, leisurely, moves them down her legs, his fingers ghosting skin as it slides. She shifts a little on his lap, freeing her legs for more maneuverability as the skirt rides up. 

It isn’t long for them to maneuver out of other impeding clothes, even kissing, a heady indulgent, unhurried exploration. She feels the familiar thrill of soft lips and a skillful tongue, or the other familiarity of moving on top of him, grinding slowly, rocking her hips against his body in a way that leaves Steve struggling to breathe. She’s transfixed, as always, by the sight of him overwhelmed, her palm planted against his broad chest, her pulling up and lowering down, slowly at first, then later on shifting against him more urgently, rotating her hips and winding back down with abandon. How he threads his hands through her hair, fingers bent around her curls, lips brushing the tip of her ears, muffled wanting gasps, lips swallowing moans. The intense rhythm is always such a pleasurable thing, chasing the intimacy of a long-familiar lover, but each thrust feels wanton and reckless, until she’s pushed him over the edge, the sweet sound of his frenzied peak, and she’s shuddering and moaning with aftershocks of pleasure, guided by the attentions of his agile fingers.

It is all so entirely familiar.

But it’s all so breathtaking, all the same.

“I’m here,” she whispers to Steve. “I’m right here, my darling.”

#

Fin.


End file.
